


Into The Woods

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual Violence, Dark, Eventual Romance, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Revisionist Fairy Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city is a forest. </p><p>The city has always been a forest. </p><p>It's just that Sherlock has never been lost in it before. </p><p>Six months after HLV however, he finds himself straying from the path, blundering into darkness in search of someone he knows he should leave alone. But can he? Does he really want to? There's a wolf at the door, to be sure, but does he know who it is yet? And will he run away, once he does?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Journeybread

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Please note that, despite the fairytale theme, the following is completely unsuitable for the young or timid of heart, as it contains references to consensual bondage with a female domme. If this squicks you, I suggest (with respect) that you do not continue reading. If, on the other hand, you _do_ like that concept…

* * *

_Journeybread_

* * *

The city is a forest.

The city has always been a forest.

It has its byways, its trodden paths. It has its monsters, sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, though they are merely human in the city. (Well, most of the time they're merely human. When it comes to Moriarty, the man who was once Sherlock Holmes is starting to have his doubts.) The city has its forgotten places too, its untouchable places. Its mysteries. Its trees and roots are metal, their leaves neon orange or bitter yellow. Water flows underneath the ground in the city, secret rivers that nobody remembers. Secret arteries in an ecosystem nobody truly understands. And when you stand in the city, you know that you are in the belly of some giant beast. Eaten, not embraced- Swallowed whole and vulnerable-

But then, the man who was once Sherlock Holmes knows what it is to be swallowed.

By panic. By fear. By loss. By shame. By drugs. By emotion.

By the weight of all he thinks he is and all the things that he knows he is not. They're drowning him.

The images play, again and again, as he picks his way through the streets. Blue eyes flash inside his mind, John's face as he pulls the trigger on Magnusson. Mary's as she hears what he has done, the hard, sharp nod (which appals John) telling him that in his place she would have done the same.  _It's hypnotic_. He is no longer the clever detective in the hat but invisible. The unknown, the thing the cityborn's eyes slide past. The thing nobody wants to see, let alone talk about.

It's the best state he could be in.

Finally, he's where he deserves to be.

For he is homeless again- On the streets again. Living rough, no Baker Street lamplight or tea from Mrs. Hudson for him. Let Moriarty and his web believe that he has gone to his death in Eastern Europe. Mycroft has it all planned- his miraculous return, his defeat of his arch-enemy, Magnusson's murder discretely forgotten in the adulation of his saving his people from the dragon within their borders. Sherlock might be a natural performer but Mycroft is a playwright, he knows how to spin a good yarn; If he didn't know better, Sherlock might almost believe that this one was told for his benefit, his big brother creating a scare so audacious that they would have to take him back-

This suspicion had lingered until the morning Philip Anderson's head turned up on Lestrade's desk. One of Sally Donovan's hands was in the box with it.

When they dragged her corpse out of the Thames a week later- Anderson's body has never been found- a smiley face was carved into her chest. Words- asking for Sherlock's gratitude, asking for the news to be sent to him- had been chiselled into her body, making the woman into a sick missive. A once-living being transformed into a tasteless taunt.

Sherlock had never liked Sally, but she did not deserve to have that happen to her. Words carved into flesh, into bone- He is not worth that.

 _Nobody is_.

He let Lestrade hit him when he checked in, let the other man take out his wrath on him though he knew such acceptance might end their friendship. Intellectually, Greg knows that it's not his fault but sentiment- Oh, sentiment dictates otherwise. After all, in seven years working together,  _she_ never took a promotion and  _he_ never could fix up his marriage.

Sometimes things are so obvious that they pass Sherlock by entirely: Donovan's place in Lestrade's life- in his heart- was merely one of them.

 _He wishes it were the only one, but he knows that it is not_.

And it is this bitter capacity for obliviousness which brings him to this section of the woods tonight. To this place. A high tower, deep in the forest. Surrounded by predators, entirely human monsters in an entirely human world. But in this place, there is someone for whom Sherlock has been willingly blind, willingly careless-

Her name is Molly Hooper and she hates him.

He has the slaps to his face to prove it.

She doesn't know that he is still in London- nobody except John, Mary, Greg and Mycroft do- and she believes he is out dying in some foreign field, without ever having even said goodbye to her. Without ever having apologised, or tried to explain, or admitted that he was leaving.

It is easier for her to hate him, Sherlock knows. Easier for her to believe that he abandoned her- the heart, slit open and cracked wide might cauterise, might heal, but only if no doubt lives within it. Only if no hope for his return resides. By the time he comes back, she will truly be over him, will have found herself someone kind and gentle and deserving to walk through life with.

This is a fairytale, and Sherlock knows it.

But he still tells it to himself every night.

That is the purpose of fairytales, to be the knots with which one pulls together life's experiences and explains them.

It's the only reason they have survived so long.

Tonight though, a fairytale isn't good enough. Tonight, he cannot stay away. He has been circling every night since his disappearance. Like iron fillings pulled by a magnet, like the heft and slide of a hangman's noose tied, he gets closer, then closer again. Mycroft has a security team on her, but Sherlock figures that if  _he_ can evade them then surely Moriarty's men can. It's why he spends so many of his nights here- John and Mary can handle themselves, Moriarty has several lost lieutenants to prove it- so he sleeps beneath her window when he can, under the wide moon. The security detail notes him, checks him and then leaves him, because moving on a rough sleeper would cause more hassle than it's worth, and because a building in this neighbourhood without at least one would stick out like a sore thumb.

There is safety, Sherlock knows, in never sticking out.

He sometimes wishes, as he surveys the wreck his life has become, that he had a little more talent for it.

He sees her then, moving along the path, her eyes straight ahead of her. Quick, purposeful tread, her ponytail swinging with each step she takes. The three person security detail are good- they never advertise their presence and they keep to a safe distance. Close enough to intervene, not near enough to paint a target on her chest. Molly slows as she nears the steps to her building, her eyes scanning the area warily. She has her keys- a bunch, heavy as a castle keep's- hefted in her right hand. The individual keys poke through her knuckles like claws. Sherlock shifts, sees her eyes narrow on him nervously- he has never before been this plainly in sight- and as the security detail moves forward he does something absolutely asinine. Something he knows he can't explain. He can't tell her who he is- and she clearly doesn't recognise him- but this near, he wants a word, a touch, something.  _Anything._

So he does what he always does in these situations: He lashes out. Gets what he wants.

He comes bowling towards her, staggering and desperate and gauchely, horrifically aware of how much bigger than she he is-

She panics, that's obvious. With a single, sharp blow the bunch of keys digs into his face, the weight knocking him backwards, the metal tearing at his skin. It feels… It feels terrible and wonderful at the same time. It feels like she is not lost to him.

He blinks, stares at her- for a moment he is back in Bart's and she still loves him and he is not a murderer-

And then as quickly as he can he turns tail and runs, barrelling down the street while one of the security detail- the smallest, a woman- gives chase.

He is being pursued, he knows, and not by the security detail.

No, he is being pursued by the flash of joy he felt when Molly slapped his face.

He loses his the female agent after about ten minutes in the warren of streets in this part of London, shedding his red hoodie- he will come back for it later- the better to disappear into the shadows of the evening. The homeless are indeed invisible in this great city, and he has a great many friends to call on at a time like this. He pushes himself over the back wall of a chipper in Whitechapel, pressing tightly against the brick's of the building's lower storey. It's a popular spot for rough sleepers- he knows two of the ones already in place- since the heat from the fryers bleeds into the stone. He takes in a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm himself- Trying to ascertain why he left the path- Trying to figure out why he would ever do something so  _stupid-_

He doesn't know that Molly Hooper sleeps not a wink that night, consumed with suspicions which she cannot quite master.

She passes out eventually in the dawn's blue light and when she dreams, she dreams of a man in a red hood.

She wishes she knew what he'd wanted.

* * *

_Path of Needles, Path of Pins_

* * *

He goes back three nights later. Not to her place but to St. Bart's.

He knows she has a lighter security detail there- everyone keeps watch on her, and she dislikes being surrounded at all times.

And besides, being spotted near her place twice is ill-advised.

Once, he's a homeless nut-job. Twice, he's a stalker or a member of Moriarty's camp.

Neither characterisation will be optimal for his continuing health.

So he sneaks into the hospital in which he used to be so welcome, his head down, his hands shaking. Just another junkie, looking for a fix. When he makes his way to the morgue (he'll just tell them he got lost) he watches everything from the corner of his eye. Sees flashes of Molly, her lab coat pristinely white in the morgue's perpetual gloom. She's thinner, her lovely, warm body wasting away from worry? Stress? Grief? He doesn't know.

She has sharp edges now, bones which poke through like his do; Sherlock does not like the thought of her becoming like him, though he cannot for the life of him explain why.

He liked it when she was soft. Gentle. Not-him.

Now he has the horrible feeling she's lost that, and that it's his fault.

Every so often she looks up, almost as if she can feel his scrutiny, and though Sherlock doesn't like to admit it, she doesn't look afraid. Resolute perhaps- the Molly of five years ago would never have attacked him with a set of keys- but afraid? No, she is not that.

He wonders how many of her fears she has faced in the last six months, ever since Moriarty's return, and realises that he his capacity for sleep will not benefit from his knowing.

This time he waits until she gets into the house, waits until the security detail settles in for the night, to try and see her face to face again. Once her flat is swept and cleared the emphasis switches to watching the outside: A team sits in a different car every night, a piece of shit Honda or Astra which is falling apart so horribly that the locals will assume it's the drugs' squad inside and not an MI:7 security team. Sherlock uses the few moments while the team is camped in the front of the flat, sorting through her kitchen, and darts into the living room. Takes a deep breath and clambers up inside the flume. The flat is late Victorian, with a chute slightly wider than its earlier brethren; it's the only reason he can fit inside a space, skinny though he is, which would originally only have been wide enough to hold a child.

He waits, listens until the security detail declare the flat clean and leave. One will remain on the landing, but the rest want the warmth of the car and their own companionship, want to stop tiptoeing their way around a civilian. As soon as the door closes he hears Molly begin to potter around the house, hears the hum of the shower and the whistle of the old-fashioned kettle she keeps from her days in uni. Sherlock waits until she is in the shower, waits until he hears the humming, soft trill of her voice singing under the spray, and then shimmies back down the flume into her living room.

He's not entirely certain why he's done this: If his presence is discovered she might be taken into protective custody, whether she wants to be or not. That would be… That would be more than a Bit Not Good.

And yet… He had to see her. Some paths are meant to be strayed from.

And he's already chosen the path of needles, he chose it the day he shot Magnusson. Is it any surprise he wants to feel the path of pins beneath his feet just once, before it's lost to him forever?

So he pads around the flat, takes in the changes- Tom's presence is now, thankfully, gone. Checks the security arrangements- all are rather obvious, but professionally set up. An agent did this, however, not his brother- it lacks his creative flair- and he will be sure to have a word with Mycroft about that at their next little tête-à-tête.

As he moves through the flat he takes in the pictures on the walls: Mary, John and the baby. Lestrade, her and Mrs. Hudson at that last party in Baker Street, when he'd just returned from the dead. Older ones too, Molly and her parents, her in her cap and gown, grinning like an idiot. Molly and her dad, a gawky, innocent teenager's smile on her face, her grin glittering with braces, her eyes so shy. For a moment Sherlock stares, wanting to take one but knowing its theft will be read into as either a threat or a warning- Probably both-

He blames this indecision for not noticing that the water has turned off. For not hearing the quiet footsteps behind him.

He also blames it for the thunderously painful crack on his head from-  _yes_ , he thinks groggily,  _she has indeed smashed his head with an iron_ \- And then he's falling backwards, drunk on gravity. Heavy under his own weight.

Sherlock lets out a hiss and turns his head to look at her, stumbling onto his knees.

In the split second before unconsciousness claims him he sees recognition in her eyes. Sees her mouth open wide in an "oh," of shock.

Darkness comes up and claims him, oppressive as water against his limbs. He is rocked by it.

He just registers her feet walking away from him, towards her front door, and then nothingness is his only sight.

* * *

_Her flowers, Her cake, Her wine_

* * *

When he opens his eyes, his is sitting on a wooden chair in her kitchen.

There is a cup of water at his elbow- just out of reach, it would seem- and two small, neatly cut pieces of toast, a tiny jam pot beside them. There is also a ramekin of butter.

The items seem out of place to Sherlock, dainty. Unnecessary.

They are not for him, surely.

He would, however, like the water, so he reaches for it and that is when he realises that his hands are tied to the chair. His legs too.

 _Oh good,_ he thinks,  _I'm about to be tortured for information by someone in my brother's employ: How novel. This_ _ **will**_ _look well on the poor idiot's performance evaluation._

He hears a throat cleared behind him- high voice, light steps, probably the female- and then Molly walks into his line of sight. She is holding an extendible baton, very like the ones the Met gives to its members, and she is staring at Sherlock from the business end of it. She looks… She looks rather put out, but she is alone. It would appear that she has not called her security detail, which is interesting. The fact that she is holding a piece of toast in her other hand, making her look considerably less fearsome, is also interesting.

Silence.

There are a great many things he can say in this moment. Things like  _sorry_ and  _help_ and  _why am I tied up?_ (thought to be fair, he can guess the answer to that one).

What he says- blurts- though, is, "I'm not him."

It is, he knows, imbecilic.

Molly's eyebrows threaten to migrate to her scalp, they raise so high.

"I'm… I'm nobody," he says. "Nobody you need to worry about-"

"Then what were you doing in my living room?" she asks, tone sceptical.

_It's a reasonable question._

What he says next is not reasonable though. "He- He asked me to keep an eye on you."

Molly frowns. "Who?" she asks. "Who asked  _you_  to keep an eye on me? John? Mycroft?"

Sherlock doesn't want to say his own name- speaking of oneself in the third person is so ridiculous- so he merely drops his head. Murmurs, "No, the other one."

Which is still speaking of oneself in the third person, and is even more ridiculous. But there's a freedom in the loss of eye-contact, the freedom of a lie-that's-not-a-lie, that sets something loosening in his chest. Something he has never been able to hand to another.

It may have passed through Irene Adler's hands that night long ago, but she never left her fingerprints on it. Tonight, though… Tonight he can't help but think that Molly might. It's in her hands.

She's finally tied him down, after so long in freefall.

"So Sherlock Holmes asked you to keep an eye on me, did he?" Molly asks. The sceptical tone is back. "Why would he do that?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I can only guess, miss," he says. He keeps his eyes on her feet: She'd see the lie in them. "Said you-" It's not him, so he can tell her the things The Great Detective would never tell her. "He said Moriarty once threatened to burn the heart out of him, and that's you now." He dips his head, the emotion frightening, defensive. He will not let her see it. "I think that's always been you, miss," he says.

His throat is tight.

Molly's feet walk back and forth in his line of vision. The fact that she's barefoot is strangely… Fitting. Her feet are quite beautiful.

"And what about John? Mary? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Have you been hiding in their chimneys too?"

He shakes his head. "No, miss. Only yours."

"Oh? And why is that? Christmas is months away-"

"He doesn't miss them the way he misses you."

Even as he says the words, he knows they're true.

Molly snorts. " _He_ doesn't miss me at all. He disappeared, never even said goodbye-"

"No point in saying goodbye if he never left."

She pauses at that, her brown furrowing. Taking him in. Taking  _that_  in. "But he's not coming back, is he?" she says eventually. "Not to the life he had before. So why not at least explain..?"

Now Sherlock looks up at her. It's a little frightening but- But he wants to see the look on her face when he tells her this.

"If you were angry, you would get over him," he says simply. "He tells you, apologises… He just sets you up again." He clears his throat. Has to look away.

He's not sure why he's telling her this.

"He's a bastard, but he's not that much of a bastard. And you deserve- You deserve better. You deserve things he could never give you. A home. Children. A real family, not a patched-up, ragged doll like him. He might be a suitable bystander in family life, but he'll never be a participant. John, Mary, they both know that, it's how they can stick with him."

He looks down again, at his lap this time. The next words are difficult, because they are true.

"The man you spend your life with should be a participant in that life. It's that simple."

For a long time Molly says nothing, just stares at him. For once, Sherlock doesn't  _want_ to see her reaction. His curiosity is nothing compared to his fear. He's been… He's been running through the forest for a long time and he doesn't think he can stop now. Doesn't think he should stop. He suspects he gave up that right the night he killed a man, however righteously or justifiably, in cold blood. He wakes up some nights, sweating, dreaming of it. Horrified at what he did, and the knowledge that he would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant protecting those he loves. Sometimes he has nightmares, imagines that it was Molly Magnusson was pressurising. Molly Magnusson was trying to hurt. He sees her in front of the bastard, a gun in her hand but she's shaking- terrified- She's no Mary Morstan-

He doesn't like when he thinks these things, it wrecks his equilibrium.

But he can't stop and he can't hide it and he's not sure he wants to.

A beat.

He hears the light  _clink_  as she places the extendible baton onto the table beside him. Hears the pad of her feet as she treads over to him, feels the back of her hand slide gently down his face, her palm coming to rest on his chin. His throat. He forces his head up and she's staring down at him with kindness. Understanding. But something else too, something dark. Something almost feral. It sets the most delicious knots tying, low in his belly.

She shows her teeth to him, almost, but it's not a smile, and he doesn't understand.

Sometimes he wishes he were better with emotions.

"So Sherlock Holmes would rather leave than let me choose?" she asks quietly. The sound of her voice sends a shiver down his spine. "He'd melt into the shadows and leave me angry at him for my own good and  _never_ think of running that plan by me?"

She shakes her head, a quick, curt movement. Her ponytail swishes as she does so, its ends swatting lightly against Sherlock's bare neck. It doesn't sting, but oh, some part of him wishes it did. He's never felt so loved as when she slapped him that morning in St. Bart's.

_Why else would he have tried to goad her into doing it again?_

"He wants to do what's right by you, miss," he says, and it's not him talking and not him they're talking about, so he can tell her the truth. "He wants- He wants to set you free."

Molly shakes her head, her gaze turning troubled. For a moment she looks away from him.

"And what would he know about freedom?" she asks quietly. "He's never free."

Sherlock feels the sting of her words, because of course, she's right. He's never free. He can only operate within certain very specific parameters or he'll go entirely mad. He has plenty of evidence of that. But oh, he wishes he could be free of that for a little while. Wishes he could turn off that revving, rushing, tinder-box mind of his and just be quiet-

There are times when he thinks the desire for a little solicitude will drive him completely insane.

He opens his mouth to tell her this, his expression open, he suspects, docile- Honest-

And without any warning whatsoever, Molly's hand slaps onto his cheekbones again, causing his head to fall backwards with a painful crick. Pain lights up behind his eyes, a galaxy of false-bright stars.

He stares at her and she stares at him, both of them horrified, scared, mouths wide open-

And then Sherlock hears his voice say it.

"Again, please, miss," he says. "Again. If I'm not him then it doesn't matter."

Molly shakes her head to herself, her expression turning haunted, then slightly panicked. Bewildered. She looks a little sick with herself. But-

"You're not him, are you?" she asks. Her voice is breathless. "You're… You don't have to be him. You can be something else entirely. Someone else entirely. And.. And so can I."

She looks at her bare feet, beautiful and pale against the kitchen tiles. "So can I."

Sherlock nods, tries not to make his acquiescence too obvious. "I'm not him, miss," he says softly. "I'm yours. That's why he sent me." And again he realises that he's said a lie aloud that tells the truth. Her hand goes to his face again and this time he leans into it. Shakes his head slightly, almost like a beast being petted.

He doesn't know why he does it and he doesn't know why it changes anything, but it must convince her because she swings her hand back and strikes him again.  _And oh, but that sensation is lovely. That is hard and sharp and bright._  For the first time since Magnusson's death, he will know peace, he can taste it. There will be silence inside his head-

He spends a night lost in the woods, tied to that chair, and although the other him might be horrified, Sherlock knows there's nowhere he'd rather be…

* * *

Three drops of blood spatter against her little, snow-drop hand, there where it's placed against his red hoodie.

It makes him think of possibilities, of spring time, but he hasn't the words to tell Molly that anymore.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. I'm not entirely sure it's finished yet, so any feedback would be appreciated. The headings reference (in order)  _Journeybread Recipe_ by Lawrence Schimel, Perrault's telling of the fairy tale  _Little Red Cap_ and  _Red Riding Hood_ by Anne Sexton.


	2. La Monde Bouleversé

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to asylum69, Archer and hiddlesbatch. It would appear that I'm not quite done with this story so enjoy, I'll try to wrap it up as soon as possible.

* * *

~  _La Monde Bouleversé ~_

* * *

All it takes is a phone-call. A single phone-call.

Five words (maybe less) in the right ear, and he has clearance to be in Molly's flat for the foreseeable future.

The security detail will be briefed. They will say nothing. They will  _see_ nothing.

He can come in every night without fear and he doesn't know why that brings no comfort.

Sherlock doesn't ask that the call be made- the female agent who chased him finds he and Molly knotted together, motley and dishevelled, the next morning, and he suspects that is how the matter comes to his brother's attention. Certainly he can't imagine Molly telling anyone, judging by how ashamed of herself she looks when she wakes up, the arms she'd wrapped around him fiercely in the night coming away from his body as quickly as a padlock that's been picked. Word comes by text, Mycroft's number withheld on the off chance it might be traced, the message's curtness telling Sherlock everything he needs to know about his brother's opinion of all this. Of this  _sentiment_.

But sentiment is why Sherlock is still in London, it is why they are trying to keep others safe from Jim Moriarty. Mycroft's attitude to it would seem, therefore, to be slightly disingenuous.

_Maybe everything seems slightly disingenuous in the cold light of day._

Sherlock thinks this, shakes his head. Looks at his face in the bathroom mirror now, sees the stark, purpling bruises forming over his cheeks, his neck. His left eyebrow. The bridge of his nose is nearly blackened though he can tell that the cartilage remains intact. His lip is split- a memory flashes through his head, the burst of blood as a small, white fist connects with his mouth- and as he watches he sees blood rush underneath his skin, his pupils dilating. Mouth falling slightly open, his entire body loosening up. It's fascinating to watch, to observe oneself from outside one's own skin-  _He's wanted out of his own skin for so long_ -

He feels safe. He feels wanted. He isn't lost in the forest.

There's a tiny knock on the door then, a mumbled, "Sherlock?" and he turns to see Molly enter, to see the widening eyes, the slightly horrified expression on her face.

The knuckles and palm of her right hand- her leading hand- are bruised this morning.

Her feet are still bare and still beautiful against the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.

Sherlock is not entirely certain why but he takes that hand without her permission, brings it to his mouth. Presses, though he doesn't kiss. It's a slower, gentler replay of the blow from earlier, and both he and Molly shiver, though he doubts either one of them would be able to say why. A kiss should not be the same as a blow, he thinks disjointedly.

_At least that's what people tell him, but people are idiots._

"You're- You're hurt," Molly says quietly then. "I mean, I mean,  _obviously_ you're hurt…"

Her voice trails off. She is having trouble meeting his eyes.

Her hands tremble slightly, beneath his fingers.

He shakes his head. "I feel fine though," he says, and it's true. He is sore, but it's a loose sort of soreness. It feels- It feels almost like the ache he remembers experiencing after a night of rough sex. (He had more than enough of those in uni.) The body battered, but endorphins and satisfaction combating the pain. The body tired, but smugly joyous in the notion that it has been put to its proper use. He's not sure how long it will last, but the thought of the hurt doesn't frighten him either; He's not sure anything frightens him anymore-

He still hasn't let go of her hand. She still hasn't pushed him away.

They stand equidistant from one another, two points on a compass, the leap from one violin note to the next.

"But you're not fine," Molly stammers eventually. "You've- Those bruises-"

"Think of them as a disguise," he says softly. "A second skin. I- I don't look so much like  _him_ anymore, now do I?"

And he smiles at the thought, at the notion that the person he used to be could be escaped. Could be shed as easily as he shed his clothes last night. As easily as he once shed his name.

_It's a strangely calming thought, for all he knows that his pride should find it anathema._

He hears Molly's indrawn hiss of breath though. She steps closer to him, her fingers tightening around his.

What he said has frightened her, he thinks.

"But you  _are_  him," she says quietly. She takes her free hand, tilts his chin up to look at her. He moves without hesitation. There is no need to hesitate here. "You are Sherlock Holmes," she's saying. Her words are slow. Certain. "You're my friend. The detective. The cleverest man I know. You do, you do remember that, don't you?" She pauses. Bites her lip.

This next part is difficult.

"Or have you… Did something happen? Is that what last night was about..?"

She is peering at him and it's doing something, something queer to his insides that's very different from what he felt when she hit him. A memory flashes through his mind, a rattled newspaper, John barking about how the press will turn on him - how they always do.

Warmth blooms in Sherlock's belly and he remembers how it felt to be loved.

He doesn't tell his arms to do it- maybe this isn't really his body either, he thinks, maybe it can belong to someone else too- but they come up and around Molly, pulling her close. His larger form bending over her smaller form, fitting them both together. Forehead to forehead, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

If he isn't the man who killed Magnusson then he can have this.

If he isn't the man who killed Magnusson then she can let him, and not measure the cost.

Molly gasps a little- he hears it against his bare skin- and then her arms come up around him too. Tighten. As they had last night, they remind Sherlock of a lock finally clicking into place, holding him. Securing him.  _Freefall and the forest can't have him, Molly Hooper got there first._ He wants to tell her that, wants to tell her how much he wanted last night. Wants to explain how it feels to know that the only things which will bring you peace are things which can hurt you, things which people who don't need them will never understand.  _But he can't_. He hears her take a deep breath though, her chest expanding with it. And then she's rocking him, rocking them both, her body soft and gentle and not-him again, no sharp lines or angles for her to cut herself with.

She's his Molly again, because he's not her Sherlock, and there's something to the symmetry of that which brings him great relief.

"Tell me what you need," she says softly then, the words lost, mumbled into his skin. "Tell me what you need,  _please_ …"

"You," he says, and it's not like the last time he said that. He keeps saying it, because he's not the man who can't, not right now.

He's not sure he could bear to be the man who can't ever, ever again.

"But do you..?" Molly shakes her head, pulls away from him. She takes his cheeks between her hands, turns her gaze to meet hers. "How do you need me?" she asks. "To hide you? To help you?"

Sherlock frowns. It should be obvious.

 _But then, what's obvious to him is seldom obvious to everyone else_.

"I need you to let go," he says quietly. "I need you to let  _me_  let go."

"Like last night?" she asks, and her voice is timid. Tiny. She frightened herself when she hit him, he knows it, though she did nothing she didn't need and he didn't ask for.

A wolf cannot be blamed for the desire to howl, after all. It is innate.

He nods though. "Like last night." He tries to make his voice persuasive. Coaxing. But then those are the methods of that man he will not be. "You enjoyed it, didn't you?" he says quietly instead. "I could tell… I mean, it felt like you did…"

"I hurt you," she says. Which isn't a yes or a no.

"You helped me," he counters. Which is better than a yes or a no. "The pain... It makes everything better. Sharper. Brighter. It… It clarifies.  _You_ clarify." He reaches down, kisses her bruised knuckles again. "These clarify: They're the only things that do."

She draws back head back from him though, her body straightening. Denying him. "I'm not- I can't-" She's stammering. "What I did isn't right-"

"Right has nothing to do with it-"

"Right  _always_ has something to do with it-"

But she must see the look on his face her words cause because she stops. Looks at him, that same Molly look that led her to help fake his death. That same Molly look that led her to try and help him with John's wedding. She's good at taking care of people, and she needs the excuse of taking care to take what she wants from him.

So before she can do more he lets her hands go, pulls her more closely against him. The length of their bodies press together, soft and warm, and oh but there is joy in that. Softness in harshness, safety in pain.

The world should look like it's turned upside down but it really does not.

"Last night really helped?" she asks eventually and he nods. Holds her gaze.

He can look at her as he does so because there isn't a trace of a lie within him.

"Yes," he says simply, and he hears her exhale. Lean in closer to him. She shakes her head and closes her eyes, arms tightening about him again-

And then, she places her forehead against his once more and murmurs a quiet, gentle, "Ok."

* * *

~  _Immaculate Flesh ~_

* * *

There are rules. There have to be.

Molly will not permit their play otherwise.

His presence waxes and wanes with the moon (she doesn't know he sleeps beneath her window even when he doesn't come inside). He visits every two weeks, usually stays three days. Sometimes less, never more. (He will not permit himself the comfort of a longer rest). He sneaks in each time, methodically exposing the holes in the security detail's planning as he does so; Molly seldom speaks when she sees him, and words usually fail him too. She strips away his clothes, red hoodie hung on the back of the door, retaining to outline of the man he is in the forest. Ties him down- chair, bed, table, it doesn't matter- and then they begin.

The blows come hard, solid. Sweat a thin film over both their forms within minutes.

They shiver, but it is not from either cold or heat.

After the first night Molly doesn't focus on his face; too much damage to be done, a fractured nose or jaw the kind of injury which would endanger him when he's on the ground. She sticks to blows in areas with enough soft tissue to cover them. His thighs. His back. His arse. To split his lip is a special treat. Joints, knees, his arms, his spine, these are left alone though he has no problem with their being struck. He knows though, without having to ask, that she will never give him an injury which might interfere with his capacity to defend himself. His information gathering is low-key but it is dangerous, and for her sake more than his he keeps himself in the sort of shape which will keep him alive.

Mycroft approves of this, though he doesn't say it.

If Sherlock is to have an addiction, the best his brother hopes for is one which can think and feel and care for the one in its thrall.

And he is in its thrall. In her thrall. He wants to be. The pain is sharp- bright- intoxicating. He feels it, feels the freedom of it even as he disappears off into inner-space, a wildwood inside his own head. A wildwood made safe because it is patrolled by his own Lady of the Forest, his own lovely, blazing Molly. His recall of what happens when he is there is hazy, much as his recall of being high is. Apparently he slurs his words when he is there. Smiles at her. Laughs. Once or twice he has tried to kiss her, everything he is turned pliant and happy and trusting in her company. Everything he is becoming everything that the man he was is not. But though she knows he is hers for the taking- he gets hard, so hard, when she lays her hands on him- Molly doesn't indulge. She refuses him. He smells how much she wants to give in, but she just shakes her head. She looks so mournful.

If she kisses him, oh if she kisses him she won't be able to do this, at least that's what she tells him.

She can't seem to understand that to him the blows are the same as kisses, the kisses the same as blows (what else does she think she has skin for? That's why  _his_ pelt was grown…)

He suspects the other him, the person he won't be anymore, would have agreed with her reckoning- Sherlock Holmes had no use for kisses, after all. He was a machine. But he is not Sherlock Holmes. Not right now. Sherlock Holmes is dying somewhere in a cave in Eastern Europe. And the man who he once was is lying, exhilarated, captured, on a chair in Molly Hooper's front room.

His hair threads through her fingers. His bones ache with her.

He vibrates with the very thought of her, even when he isn't with her, and the only reason he forces himself to survive his every encounter with Moriarty's goons is so that he can see her again. So that he can have  _this_ again.

This is what's keeping him alive.

Every time she finishes with him she unties him, soothes him. Massages the areas she has beset with her clever fingers. Touches every inch of his skin with every ounce of her care. As she does it Sherlock sees calmness moves through  _her,_ sees peace finally claim her. Her desires are written on her skin in those moments when she kisses the wrists and ankles she has bound. Her eyes settle on him, only on him, and it sometimes seems to Sherlock that this is what she truly wants from him. His trust. His quiet. His safety in her hands. The knowledge that he is with her and not lost on some foreign field. He can feel it on the rare occasions when she has to stitch him up after they have both gone too far into their forest. The love. The care. The tenderness.

She is angry with him- She has every right to be- but though it fuels her violence towards him, it is her care for him that he feels when she puts him back together and it never seems to really go away.

So they continue in their play. Day to day. Month to month. Neither examining this thing they have found with the other. Neither seeking to find something else. Something new. This is all Sherlock will let himself want. All he will let himself think about. Theirs is an orbit, light to dark, dark to light, and Sherlock is grateful to be caught in its gravitational pull-

 _So long as he has this, he need not fear being lost in the woods_.

* * *

 

In this way, months pass. The layers of Moriarty's conspiracy, of his influence, falling away piece by piece as Mycroft and his allies sort carefully through their intel'. As Sherlock investigates on the ground, braving the danger of the forest each day, the knowledge that he is fighting to save his friends, his family, the only thing which keeps him going.  _He doesn't love being Sherlock Holmes, not anymore._ Not since Appledore and blood on his hands, blood under his fingernails. Magnusson was a bastard- a monster- but that knowledge doesn't help him at all. He sometimes wonders whether he would stop hunting, stop trying entirely, if it wasn't for John and Mary and Molly. It is only their safety which concerns him now, only their safety which he is willing to hazard against his own. So he keeps going, keeps circling, keeps coming back to his Lady of the Forest.

Into the wildwood he goes with her, into the wolf-singing green.

And it is while he is there, while they both are, that the villain of this fairy tale finally decides to pay a call.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed. The chapter headings reference  _A Feast of Bones_ by Theatre Lovett (" _La Monde Bouleversé,"_ means "the world turned upside down) while "Immaculate Flesh," references Angela Carter's  _The Company of Wolves._


	3. Snagged On Twig and Branch, Murder Clues

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. 

* * *

_~ Snagged On Twig and Branch, Murder Clues ~_

* * *

The photos are sent to Mycroft's phone.

His  _personal_  phone. Not the one he's listed as having in his government file, the one he actually uses.

There's a mystery as to how this could have happened- At least, there is until Anthea's body turns up.

Then, unfortunately, the mystery is a mystery no longer.

Her corpse shows evidence of at least two separate schools of torture, one associated with certain militias active in the Chechen conflict, one more specifically associated with the Japanese Yakuza. Her beautiful hair has been shorn off, three of her fingernails removed ante-mortem. Two of her teeth were also removed- there's no evidence of anaesthetic- though the MI:7 pathologist finds skin between them so she got at least a small piece of the person who did it.  _It is not, however, enough to give a match for DNA_. Sherlock's not there when the news comes through but he doubts his brother took it lying down-

Mycroft's not really the lying down sort, after all.

And the hard, icy rage with which he reports the photos' existence, and their provenance, shows how far from happy with what has happened he is.

Because the photos, when Mycroft can finally bring himself to show them to Sherlock, show Molly Hooper and he engaging in their… usual activities. Molly is straddling his waist, her hands locked in his hair as she pulls his head viciously backwards, her fist connecting solidly with his stomach. His legs. His back. He is smiling, it's true, but her teeth are bared, her spine bowed in effort-

She looks every inch his Lady of the Forest, every inch his vicious little wolf.

Even without understanding the context in which they were taken, it would be obvious that she and Sherlock aren't sharing some benign, amorous tussle: She's definitely inflicting pain, and he's definitely enjoying it. They look like a binary, a double star. A double negative. Staring at the images stirs something, something deep and dark and low and lovely in Sherlock, something which he can tell disgusts Mycroft and which he suspects would disturb John. He doesn't want to imagine his best friend seeing these pictures, and yet- a novel experience for him these days- there is absolutely nothing in them that he would change.

He suspects his smile, small as it is, tells Mycroft that too.

There are twenty in all, black and white, time stamped to Sherlock's last visit to Molly. They're all real, apparently. Not faked. Not staged. "Don't need to be, do they, brother mine?" Mycroft says coolly as he stares at Molly.

She at least has the good grace to blush when he says it.

Embarrassment- or shame, for that matter- is not something at which Sherlock excels however, and he sees no reason to start now.

 _His_ skin remains resolutely snow-white.

Instead he moves to stand in front of her, showing his brother all he needs to know about where his loyalties lie. About who his little wolf might have to defend her.

Mycroft shakes his head. "They were supposed to believe you were out of the game, Sherlock," he says, speaking his brother and looking almost  _through_ Molly. "Your inability to control your proclivities has upset my plans beyond repair-"

"You knew this was a possibility," Sherlock points out calmly. "I never believed we could keep up the ruse of my being away indefinitely."

Mycroft shoots him his coldest, haughtiest glare. "You didn't need to make it so bloody easy though," he bites out. "Do you know how many agents I've caught over the years, just because they couldn't refrain from getting their leg over? Just because they set their heart aching for one particularly familiar cock or cunt?" He scoffs.  _Now_ his gaze rakes over Molly. "Please, brother mine: It's text-book-"

"Nothing in those pictures is text-book." Sherlock makes a show of shrugging nonchalantly.  _If Mycroft wishes to taunt him with the ghost of Irene Adler then he can bloody well piss off._  "I saw what I needed to keep working and I took it-" He shakes his head slightly. Corrects himself. "That is, I allowed it to take me."

And he reaches down, takes one of Molly's small, bruised hands in his. He has to fight the- by now automatic- impulse to press it to his mouth, its small, warm strength held tight against his lips.

As if against her will Molly's hand reaches up and strokes through his hair, her eyes on his, for a moment even his brother's presence forgotten…

Mycroft clears his throat.

Loudly.

"Well, romantic and asinine as that sentiment may be," he announces, "I'm afraid that this little tryst will have to cease."

And he crosses his arms, leans back with what he charmingly assumes is a commanding look on his face.

Sherlock blinks up at him, unwilling to believe his brother would try to stop this: Didn't their entire childhood teach Mycroft  _anything_ about how stubborn he is?

_Clearly it didn't, something Sherlock will have to remedy right away._

"No," he says. This is not open for discussion.

" _Yes,"_ Mycroft counters, as if- preposterously- his will be the last word.

Molly opens her mouth to object but- Holmes that he is- Mycroft speaks over her-  _Apparently he's elected to bypass Sherlock entirely_ -

"You will be taken into special custody, Dr. Hooper," he tells her. "For your own safety, of course: Moriarty's proven that he can get to you in your flat, so you will have to leave."

Molly shakes her head. "But I can't- I have a job, friends-"

"Yes, all very interesting," Mycroft says. "But none of that is important enough to countenance leaving one of our few remaining hooks for Moriarty out in the open, these pictures prove that-"

And he shakes his head patronisingly, clucks his tongue. Sherlock's grip on Molly's hand tightens.

She looks at him slightly helplessly, the woman who has to be shown that what she does to him is alright even as she does it.  _Don't worry,_ Sherlock mouths.  _This will be alright, I promise._

Mycroft sees and rolls his eyes but he doesn't understand, not really.

_For such a clever man there are some things that the elder Holmes doesn't comprehend at all._

"We tried the free-range approach, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft is telling her, "We've let you roam free and see what's happened: Moriarty made amateur porn from it." He glances down at the photos, his expression withering. "Really, if I'd known recreational scolding was the sort of thing you enjoyed I'd have sent  _you_ after The Woman-"

Molly takes a step back as if his words have actually, physically struck her, and this time Sherlock moves forward, pressing his brother against his desk, remind Mycroft with whom he is speaking.

_Photos or no, she didn't deserve that._

Mycroft sneers, shrugs him off. Sherlock sees his elder brother reach for the tumbler of scotch of his desk however, sees his hands shake slightly as he lifts it, and he belatedly remembers that today Mycroft lost the closest thing he has to a confident. A protégé. No agent had survived him so long as Anthea.

It's not an excuse, not at all, but he suspects that it might be responsible for his sibling's appalling behaviour and a glance at Molly tells him she sees the same thing.

A beat.

"What happens if I refuse?" Molly asks quietly then.

Sherlock's not entirely sure why she's asking.  _Doesn't she know he'll take care of this?_

Mycroft can never bear to leave him without the things he needs, not really, and right now he needs her.

But Mycroft is smiling. "If you refuse I will have two choices: either I will wash my hands of you and leave you to your own devices- Good luck with that." His gaze turns harder. Darker. "Or I'll take you into custody by force, something which, given the evidence, I rather think you'll enjoy-"

Molly's hand flashes so quickly even Sherlock is surprised by it.

The blow lashes Mycroft's cheek, quicker and harder than any Sherlock has ever seen her wield. He feels a quick stab of jealousy.

Just for a split second he sees Mycroft's automatic response- his fists tightens, jerks as if to strike Molly- and then, just as quickly, he is his own master again. The dapper, gentleman sociopath. The spy-master general of old London Town.

"Apologies," Mycroft says, and this time at least he sounds like he means it.

There's blood on his lip, a tiny drop has spattered his tie. It looks wrong on him.

He's not used to the marks of Molly's attentions, Sherlock thinks, a warm thrill of pride curling in his belly. He doesn't deserve them.

He doesn't want to examine why that thought makes him feel so sad.

Because Molly's leaning into Mycroft. "The things I do with your brother are between me and your brother," she hisses. "We're not a dirty joke, and I am not an excuse for violence. From you or anyone. Do you understand me?"

The elder Holmes looks slightly taken aback.

"Do you understand me?" she repeats.

A miniscule bob of the head. Sherlock wants to crow with pride.

"Good. Now apologise."

And her voice rings the way it did all those months ago in St. Bart's when she demanded Sherlock apologise to her. It's resonant. Sharp. Beautiful.

Sherlock wants to close his eyes, to drown in it.

Apparently it has some of the hold over Mycroft that it has over Sherlock because he gives another miniscule inclination of his head. "Apologies, Ms. Hooper," he says.

He sounds slightly… breathless. And slightly horrified, that he's breathless.

"It's Dr. Hooper," she points out quietly. She turns, throws a glance at Sherlock, suddenly shy again. Suddenly nervous. She's standing close, back pressed against his chest. "Now tell me about your ideas for protective custody," she says quietly, "and I'll think about it."

* * *

She secures Mycroft's promise not to take her by force and listens to his arguments.

Eventually she agrees to leave and pack.

She tacitly doesn't ask why, when next she sees them, both Holmes brothers are sporting black eyes, or how Mycroft split his lip. Neither brother volunteers this information.

Sherlock winds her in his arms that last night, holds her close; He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he does it all the same.

* * *

~  _An Empress In Red ~_

* * *

They're not supposed to see one another, that's the first of Mycroft's rules.

It's also, incidentally, the first rule Sherlock breaks.

Because yes, she leaves her old identity behind, a new name on her passport and driver's licence. A new pass for a new hospital, no longer in Bart's or the morgue anymore. And yes, she changes her appearance, dyes her hair red, starts wearing dark blue contacts. She needs to look like someone else, it's part of her disguise.  _New city, new name, new Molly_. But there is nowhere that they could have stashed her that Sherlock wouldn't have found her, and Mycroft must have known that-

This time, they're not foolish though. This time, they don't fall into a Moriarty-baiting routine.

This time there's no waking up together, no sharing a bed. No warm, wet, blood-spattered intimacy. No smiles, no patching one another up. No bones aching with the want of her.

No, this time she hurts him as harshly as she pleases and then leaves him. He doesn't begrudge her it, just trudges home, sleeps it off. Shrugs it off. It's too dangerous to do anything else.

And it goes without saying that he never asks her to stop.

Because when she hits him now, he forgets entirely that he was once the man known as Sherlock Holmes, and he was once a detective. It's what keeps him alive, that amnesia, and for that he's more grateful and he can say. Even the nightmares of Magnusson cease when Molly goes to work on him, though those of Moriarty still occasionally rattle through his brain. He can't seem to outrun them, for all he spends so much time chasing Molly. Hunting her, almost. Allowing her to drag him into the darkness of alleys and backrooms, places smoky with the stench of lust and violence and want, want, want. She doesn't punch now, she rakes his skin. Tears it. There's no tenderness when she goes to work on him, when she opens him up and makes him bleed. When he scratches a new identity into his skin. Nails. Teeth. Does it matter? Oblivion is always red and oblivion is what he's craving.

This thing between them is getting out of control, her eyes seem to say it, and he's too frightened of going back to the man he was to call a halt.

So he works tirelessly, going through leads, tracking those close to Moriarty. The Irishman has few allies left but those still with him are true believers, not in the game for fear or profit but because they'll follow their Caesar into any Rome.  _It's what makes them dangerous._ There are whispers of a woman with Moriarty now, someone from his past, someone who was once in the employ of Lord Moran. This woman is the person those who get close deal with, the person of the Emperor being kept safe from all those who would wish him harm.

His Empress, that's what the criminals call her. Moriarty's Empress in Red, operating in his place. Moving his chest pieces, his pawns. Contributing to his legend.

She occupies the same place in most criminals' minds as the witch in the gingerbread house or the devil who chased the handless maiden, but though Sherlock looks and look for her, she seems resolutely unwilling to come out and play. She has none of her master's boldness.

 _And unlike Moriarty, she seems entirely immune to Sherlock's glittering, vicious charm_.

Holmes is trying to get close to her- he and Mycroft's people have gone through at least fifteen separate organisations in order to find her- but every time they think they're getting close, she disappears. Usually leaving behind the body of their informant. Sometimes leaving behind quite a few more besides. Because she's clever. Canny. Not in the habit of taking risks. And, from what Sherlock can tell, not in the slightest bit suicidal or reckless. In fact, she seems to act as some sort of… of earth, to Moriarty. A grounding influence, that's what those who've met her say.

He's madder than he's ever been but she calms him. Soothes him. Keeps him on point.

In his darker moments, Sherlock wonders whether she is Moriarty's Lady of the Forest; He always pushes that thought away as quickly as it comes, anxious at the feeling of contagion it carries.

But though he doesn't want to think about Molly and this woman existing in the same universe, sometimes he is reminded that they do. Moriarty's crew are still using cadavers as postcards, and the ones Lestrade keeps finding the Thames are all honest in their messages to Sherlock.  _We know you're here,_ they say.  _Come out and face us._ More than once he's been told that he should  _come out and play._ But Sherlock ignores the messages, knowing that there is no point in engaging with them, no point at all…

And then the Empress in Red does the unthinkable.

She steals into the wildwood and takes Molly. Spirits her away.

Sherlock doesn't realise until he falls back to the safe house he's been using these last few days and finds his bed strewn with rose petals, flecks of blood spattered against his filthy sheets. A basket containing wine and honey-cake has been placed with exquisite care across his pillow, two tumblers sent out. There's a note on the door-  _Come and find her,_ it says-

And for the first time in forever Sherlock realises that he's going to have to be the man he was, just once more.

So he pulls out his phone and calls John. Mary. Mycroft.

Oblivion can wait, Molly needs him  _now_.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. The first chapter heading is taken from Carol Ann Duffy's  _Little Red Cap._ Will try to update soon, hobbits away, hey!


	4. At Last, To The Edge of The Woods

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Things are about to get a little darker, enjoy and beware...

* * *

_~ At Last To The Edge of The Woods ~_

* * *

Mary is the first to arrive, and she brings the tools of her (former) trade with her.

Knives. A listening wire. A small, porcelain semi-automatic. Plastic ties. Burglary tools. A video camera.

All are secreted discretely about her person.

"If you kill the bastard, people will want proof," she tells Sherlock when he eyes the camcorder. " _Mycroft_ will want proof."

Holmes nods. He can't- Words don't feel right in his mouth at the moment and Mary seems to understand that. She does not comment on his silence.

"No point in taking a scalp if you can't prove whose it was," she continues instead, loading her weapon. She is keeping her voice soft, her body language open and calming. Her golden hair is hidden beneath the same black woollen cap she wore when she shot him, and Sherlock finds something oddly soothing in this.

She wore these clothes when last he nearly died: Could this be an extended tradition?

He hopes it is and he hopes it's not, but more than anything he hopes her strange weakness for him will not cost Molly Hooper her life.

John arrives then, trudging into the safe house a great deal more loudly than his wife did. He too is armed, his body covered almost entirely in Kevlar. It occurs to Sherlock that Mary must have done that, tried her best to keep him safe even with his best friend dragging him into the line of fire. He wishes he could be the person who had made that call, just as he wishes he weren't the person who made it necessary, but he knows John well enough to understand that he chose to be here.  _Loyal he might be, but nobody forces John Hamish Watson to do something he doesn't want to do_.

Not even a woman with the extraordinary skill-set his wife possesses, and not even Sherlock Holmes.

So he merely nods to his friend- "Mrs. Hudson's got Emma, they're up in Wiltshire at my parents' place," John tells him, his way of explaining that the remaining members of Sherlock's extended family are safe. "Harry's not pleased about all those secret service agents, but she'll live. Now, how are we going to do this?"

"Quietly," Mary chimes from beside him, "We're going to do this quietly." Sherlock holds out his hand for the weapon he knowsJohn brought him, his own tenseness evident as John places the small pistol in his hand. He tucks it into his jeans, the weight of it hidden by his red hoodie as Mary speaks. "They're expecting Mycroft's boys," she's saying, "so let's not give them what they want."

And then she nods towards the warehouse Moriarty's trail of (ridiculously easily deduced) breadcrumbs has led them to. All three stare at it intently.

"They'll know we're coming," John says. "Even without Mycroft, they'll know we're coming-"

His wife shoots both men a sharp smile.

"That's the point," she says, and she nods to Sherlock who moves before her, his hands held out. With practiced ease she sets a pair of plastic ties against his wrists, securing them just enough to make it look like he's held fast. Sherlock knows that they'll come loose as soon as he pulls his hands apart, and then…

Then those who took his Molly will have to pay.

The thought brings no joy, no rush, just a strange, eerie sense of emptiness. But he won't allow himself to dwell. Instead he nods to Mary, watches her grins more sharply as she reaches up, pulling a knife out of her shoulder holster and pressing it rather ostentatiously against his groin. She reaches up and grabs a hank of Sherlock's hair, her smaller height forcing him to bend to accommodate her. A smaller, stiletto knife juts between her knuckles and digs into his neck. "Sell it," she mutters in his ear as she drags him forward, "they have to believe you're too exhausted to fight me off…"

 _Not going to be a problem,_ Sherlock thinks as he trudges into the building.

_All I've felt is exhausted since Appledore._

But he doesn't say this, just turns briefly to look back at John.  _He really hopes this works, for his sake_. "Once I have a location for Molly I'll tell you, love," Mary is telling her husband. "You have your wire on?" John nods. "Good, then wait for my signal-"

"I know. Just… Be careful, ok?" John shoots Sherlock a stern look. "Both of you."

Mart shoots him the wicked smile Sherlock might once have. "Hey, danger is my middle name-"

"I'm currently choosing to believe it's Elizabeth," John speaks over her. His tone is terse. "So watch yourself, Mary Elizabeth Watson. Be  _safe_."

And with a final nod he sets to climbing the fence at the back of the warehouse, looking for a place he can set up his rifle. With Mary and Sherlock distracting them, he's hoping to take out either Moriarty and/or his Lieutenant quietly and efficiently. Two kill shots. No fuss.

For the sake of his mental health, as well as that of his family, Sherlock sincerely hopes he manages it.

There is nobody, not even his brother, whom Sherlock would rather have watching his back.

A beat.

The former detective looks back at his best friend's wife and nods to her. "You ready?" he asks quietly.

Her look is quizzical. "Are you?"

He nods.

"Good, then let's get this bastard out of our lives," she says fiercely. And with that she starts dragging him forwards into the warehouse, yelling at the top of her lungs as she goes. Demanding to see, "that bitch who's been fucking with my family," telling her that "she has something she's been looking for."

Sherlock slouches forward, dragging his body as if he's been beaten to a pulp. The bruises and emaciation, consequences from both living rough and Molly's attentions, make this rather more believable than it might otherwise have been. At the very edge of his peripheral vision he sees men in suits with guns ghost into place beside him; they're stationed around the warehouse, waiting for him apparently.  _Moriarty and his Lieutenant must have been awfully certain he'd come for Molly._  They do not however point their guns at him, which would support the hypothesis that Moriarty wants him alive-

This would be calming, Sherlock muses, if he weren't so certain that the Irishman merely wants to kill him himself.

A few steps further and Sherlock and Mary are into the warehouse's central room, a rigged generator provided painful, bleaching white light from a set of free-standing, industrial lamps. The scene before him is pure theatre: Moriarty reclines on a leather wing-backed chair, his Lieutenant at his right on a lower stool. Both look impeccable, his three-piece charcoal suit flawless, her silk, scarlet dress draped coyly around her frame. They sit at the epicentre of the room, a Sun King and his courtesan. A stable, centrifugal point in a world gone mad. But this close Sherlock can see the stress within them, just as he can see the manic glitter in Moriarty's eyes.  _This is not the man he spoke to on St. Bart's roof, he's sure of it._ Height, weight, eye colour are close but do not match. Identical twins most likely, though he won't rule out the use of plastic surgery to create a double, what with Moriarty-As-Bogeymen being  _such_ a useful scare-tactic these days-

As Mary forces Sherlock forward he sees the Lieutenant stiffen for a split second, her dark eyes narrowing through the curtain of her long, blonde hair. It is enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

Her gaze is oddly… intent.

"He came for you," the Fake Moriarty announces then. He throws the words over his shoulder to a lump of flesh and bloodied rags that Sherlock can barely see. Molly, he assumes, and the realisation that the lump is not moving sets something… something growling and desperate in his belly.  _This sentiment has teeth._ "I told you he'd come get her, didn't I, love?" he continues, smiling sweetly at his Lieutenant. "He does so  _adore_  his little pets."

Sherlock feels Mary's grip on his hair tighten.

"He didn't come for Molly," she bites out. Sherlock does his best to look shame-faced. "He didn't even want to see her. Too bloody strung out to even realise she was gone. I'm the one who brought him in, and I'm the one you're going to deal with now-"

The Fake Moriarty's sickly-sweet smile widens. "Oh, and why should we do that?" The question is directed more at his Lieutenant than Mary. "After all, we've been trying to kill you for months, Agent Johansson, what makes you think we'll stop now?"

Mary shows her teeth. "You'll stop now because I've put ten of your boys in the morgue and I've brought you what you're looking for."

She throws Sherlock forward and he lands messily, folding himself into a heap. Making himself look more pathetic. From the corner of his eye he can just make out Molly's form and the Fake's manic grin.

He can almost reach out and touch both of them.

"And you'll stop," Mary continues, "because if you know anything about who Agent Johansson was then you know that going to war with me won't be like tangling with Junior, here." She digs a sharp, painful toe into Sherlock's stomach to emphasise her point. "I won't stop. I won't play nice with the other children. I will protect what is mine from harm-"

The Fake grins at her. "And what about your darling husband? What if we tell him you've just sold out his best friend? What will you do then?"

Mary holds out the blade she had used to secure Sherlock, looks down its length at her enemy. Her gaze is utterly, terrifyingly cold and it belatedly occurs to Sherlock just  _how_ conflicted she must have been that night she shot him if this is how she looks when she's sure.

"Push comes to shove, I'll protect my daughter from  _him_ too," Mary says quietly. "I love John Watson, but Emma has to be my priority. I hand over the Great Detective here and I'm guaranteeing her safety: That's all a mother can do."

The Fake snorts. "So the Mum of the Year Award is in the bag, is it? And there's always another blond, bland, jumper-wearing mini-warrior on the horizon?"

Mary inclines her head. "Something like that." She gestures to the lump that is Molly. "Now hand me over the pathologist and the Boy Adventurer is yours-"

"And if we refuse?" The Lieutenant's voice sounds this time. It is coy. Silky. Dangerous.

Sherlock can still feel that intent gaze on him.

Mary turns her most withering look upon the other woman. "You can refuse, if you feel like dying," she says. "Or you could just hand over my friend and Sherlock Holmes won't have cost another life: Way I see it, that's a win."

And, still watching both the Fake and his Lieutenant, she reaches her hand out towards the lump of rags. Moves it aside.

A single, pale hand appears from beneath the fabric, its knuckles bloodied.

As Sherlock watches, his breath held, a shaking, weeping Molly Hooper hauls herself to her feet, her arms held out to Mary. One of her eyes is bruised shut, and her lip appears to be split. She spares him a glance but he has to look away. He can't bear to see her like this, not when he knows he's the cause. As he does so she takes a step forward, her knees going from under her-

Sherlock lunges forward as she falls, pulling his hands apart and severing the ties binding him even as Mary snarls, "now!" into her wire and a glass panel, three quarters of the way up the warehouse's wall explodes as a bullet rips through it.

The noise is horrifying, almost concussive, and then there's blood-spatter on Sherlock's skin, in his hair. On his hands.

There's so much blood on his hands. He doesn't want Molly to see it.

He can't understand why but it seems vitally important that she does not.

He can't help it though: He turns to see the Fake Moriarty keel forward, red spreading across his chest as the bullet John Watson has just fired into him does its work. That manic, rictus grin stretches over his face as he reaches for Sherlock, but before he can do any damage another bullet slams into him, this one taking off half his skull. The body sways and drops, the sound of it lost in gunfire; For a moment Sherlock can only stare, drowning in a memory of a rooftop three years ago. Drowning in a memory of another death for which he had longed.

On some level he is aware that he's probably going to get himself killed but he can't seem to move.

Apparently though, this is not his day to die. Mary grabs Molly and drags her behind the Fake Moriarty's chair, the security detail scattering like pigeons and either running away or heading out to take down John, whichever they deem most expedient. As if in slow motion Sherlock sees the bullets explode into the ground beside him, one of the security detail apparently having stayed back to lay down covering fire. He hears Mary scream his name, pivots on his heel to see the spot she and Molly have taken cover in. His eyes lock with Molly's and suddenly he's running, trying to get to safety, the memory of Moriarty's first death forgotten. The desire to be beside Molly almost a physical ache.

So he runs. He won't stop. He won't stop for anyone.

He's on the roof of St. Bart's and he's in front of Magnusson's house and he's running through a forest in Serbia, an army on his tail. The devil on his tail. But all of them are worth it because he can see Molly and that is all he needs to run towards-

He makes it most of the way without any trouble.

Moriarty's Lieutenant is sheltering behind the remains of a goods inwards door at the back of the building; she too is laying down fire but she seems to be keeping her spray wide, trying to keep others clear rather than hit them herself.. She meets Sherlock's eyes as he darts across the room however, her expression determined. Whether this is self-preservation or revenge is unclear though her intent is clear enough.  _She wants blood_. So she lumbers to her feet, starts rounding on her attackers. As she nears Sherlock pulls out his own firearm, forces himself in front of Molly: If he is to die then there are few more worthy of the sacrifice, and maybe this aching, empty feeling in his chest will be chased away by death. The Lieutenant grins, seeing his action: She aims over his shoulder at Mary, moving too fast to give the other woman a chance to defend herself. Giving Sherlock no chance but to put her down.

He aims, pulls the trigger. Everything goes quiet.

The crack of the gunshot sounds but misses, a one in a million shot as the Lieutenant moves too fast for him to catch.

She skids to a halt, her aim now sure and steady on Mary. Again Sherlock pulls the trigger, and this time he knows he will not miss. Scarlet blooms at her belly, the shot going through her but not exiting, her red dress staining an even deeper crimson as she bleeds out. She blinks at Sherlock in surprise, opens her mouth to say something- probably something insulting- Her gun hasn't moved away from him and she hasn't fallen, not yet-

And then, as if from nowhere Molly forces herself forwards, the small, stiletto knife Mary had held to Sherlock's throat jammed tightly between her knuckles.

She slashes at the Lieutenant, each blow vicious. Hard. Vindictive.

Blood spatters on her clothes, her voice hoarse and screaming, and just for a moment Sherlock feels like he doesn't know this woman at all. She's wailing like a fury, and the only thing he can make out in her babble is his name. She's saying it over and over again. The Lieutenant's eyes focus on her as she stabs, the woman's mouth widening, grinning-

And then her gaze turns to Sherlock. She purses her lips in an obscene parody of a kiss.

"You're welcome," she mouths, her grin mocking. Her eyes turning backwards in her head even as she drops to the floor, the blood still flowing out of her.

She doesn't drop her weapon.

She twitches once. Twice. Another bullet pierces the warehouse, John putting her down permanently. There are… There are bits of her all over Sherlock. Mary.  _Molly._

_Sherlock has never wanted to wash more than he does right now._

Molly sits and stares at what they have both done.

She has never seemed so far away and when she looks at Sherlock, it's like she's looking straight through him.

* * *

_~ Small Lies, For A Wolf ~_

* * *

Mycroft comes and takes charge, as he always does.

That he is slightly put out by his brother and his friends taking matters into their own hands is a given. That he had to be told about this by his family is likewise an irritation. But it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and in order to avoid the attentions of the police Mary, John and Sherlock are all happy to pretend that the plan was his idea. This gives him kudos with both his own masters in government, and his parents.

"Mummy has been most upset with me over Magnusson," he tells Sherlock. "She blames me for everything."

He looks tired, gaunt, watching his brother being patched up.

Sherlock wonders why he does it, sometimes.

"Yeah, well, that's the problem with wanting people to believe you're omnipotent, Mycroft," John Watson points out dryly. "Eventually it happens and suddenly everything is your fault.

 _Everything._ "

Mycroft ignores the army doctor with magnificent, Holmesian disdain but Sherlock knows the words have hit home. It's in the stiffness of his brother's shoulders. The way he sniffs at John's words. Mycroft has little in the way of tells, but these are among them.

It occurs to Sherlock to wonder disjointedly whether he himself has any tells.

"Yes, well, all's well that ends well, I suppose," the elder Holmes is saying. "Although I must admit, I'm impressed by the new Mrs. Watson's cool head-"

"Don't go there." Mary's sitting to the side, being checked over by one of Mycroft's agents. She's covered in blood and viscera but otherwise appears to be unharmed. "You start thinking about how useful I might be to you, Mr. Holmes," she tells Mycroft, "and I might start thinking about whether Sherlock really needs any siblings."

She smiles at Mycroft. It's sweet. Sharp. Slightly terrifying.

Mycroft, predator that he is, knows another of his kind on sight and inclines his head. Politely lets the matter drop. It's probably wise of him to do so.

The medic goes back to checking Mary and Sherlock, John and Moriarty's remaining henchmen having been cleared already and once again Sherlock finds himself wondering where the Hell Molly is.

Because she alone has been spirited away. According to Mycroft she hadn't been very badly hurt, and yet- And yet, when Sherlock has seen her earlier, he had felt a discordant jolt of recognition. She had looked like he has felt all these months. Words gone from her. The things she sees behind her eyes so different from the things she sees before them. Her hands covered in blood and no longer- No longer her own. No longer intended for her deeds at all. Her mind a blank slate, painted over with shadow and darkness. Her mind no longer trust-worthy, shaken and disordered by a memory which won't go away. Sherlock knows how she feels, he knows how it feels to be sick with the memory of the things one has done, however righteously. What have the last few months been but his living with the remembrance of killing Charles Augustus Magnusson in cold blood over and over again?

But he has never wanted Molly to understand that and now he has the terrible feeling she  _does_  understand- That she'll never understand anything else-

"She'll be fine," he hears John murmur quietly beside him.

The doctor is making a show of checking Sherlock's bandages to make sure they're tight enough.

"You don't know that," Sherlock mutters back. Words still feel wrong in his mouth but he has to say this. "You don't know what happened-"

"I do." John's gaze is on Mary, his expression fond, but Sherlock knows it's he who has his attention.

He's not looking directly at him though, something John reserves for when he  _knows_ Sherlock's upset.

"She tried to kill someone with her bare hands in order to keep you safe: I know how that feels," he says. "Maybe not the bare hands bit, but the other part. And she will be fine."

Sherlock shakes his head. He can't explain- He's not fine. He hasn't been fine in months, how can Molly be? Love resolutely does not conquer everything.

Before he can say anything though he sees her ghost into his midst, ethereal and lovely as a wraith.

Her hair is down. Dirty. As she gets closer he realises it is matted in blood. Her knuckles are still ruddy with scrapes though they've been cleaned up a bit. Her face is still bruised. Beaten. She looks lost, lonely.  _Lovely_.

She looks like she's looking for something.

Sherlock's heart beats harshly in his chest as he lets himself believe it might be him, but something… Something tells him that it is not.

And he's right, that's obvious as her eyes move over him. They speed past him as if he's not even there and he feels the shock of it- the hurt- to the grain of his bones. Because instead of moving towards him, Molly totters towards Mary. The blonde woman blinks, surprised, but gamely opens her arms to her.

Even after all her years as an operative, the instinct towards motherhood is apparently still strong.

Molly enters her embrace and without even telling himself to do so, Sherlock rises. Stumbles over to her. He feels awkward. Gauche. Clumsy. He doesn't- Nobody ignores him. He can't bear the thought of Molly ignoring him. He can't bear the thought that Molly can't see him anymore. Mary looks up at him, her eyebrows raised, and then looks down at Molly. The other woman has folded herself into her friend's arms, her eyes on the ground. She's biting her lip almost bloody.

"Molly…" Mary begins, her tone coaxing. Soothing. She's stroking her back gently.

Molly Hooper shakes her head violently and lumbers to her feet.

For a moment it seems she'll speak and then she disappears off into the darkness, her breaths panting harshly, her footsteps light as a shadow's-

Sherlock stares after her, knowing that he can't follow.

He's still staring after her when Mycroft puts him in a car to take him home, and he's still staring after her the next morning when his brother tries to get him to eat.

He doesn't succeed.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. The titles reference  _Little Red Cap_ by Carol Ann Duffy and  _The Waiting Wolf_ by Gwen Strauss.


	5. Discord and Rhyme

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And thanks to spuffygirl for her review of the last chapter. A little breather here, but don't get ideas now… There's more darkness to come... 

* * *

~  _Discord and Rhyme ~_

* * *

In the aftermath of the Moriarty Hoax, Sherlock steals back into the woods.

He would consider it a retrograde step, but time passes… differently there, and there's nothing he wants to consider. Nothing at all.

Which makes the woods the perfect place to be.

There's nothing to mark the passing of the days in the woods, no meals taken, the contrast between waking and sleeping becoming negligible. All of life is seasonal; Epochs are born, lengthen, die, and then are born again outside the hangman's noose. Outside the ticking clock. Outside the helter-skelter of a modern life and all it entails. There is no murder in the woods, no names, no sweet-bitter memories. Nobody pulls away from Sherlock when he is lost in the woods, and he doesn't have to look at anyone and know what he has done for their sake, what they have done for his. No, everything in the woods yearns for a state of rest- peace- The opposite of all that he once was-

And it is for this reason the man who was once Sherlock Holmes wanders there. Lost. Alone.

He does it all from the comparative safety of his childhood bed.

He does not eat. He does not talk. He does not leave. He does not wish to.

They cannot force him from this forest. Nobody can.

And so he stumbles through the trees, not thinking. Not feeling. He is as still as the snow of winter and just as cold. Everything he once was is drifting away. In the aftermath of the Moriarty Hoax, and the Appledore Incident, and his time on the streets and the sweet-bitter, oblivion-baiting whatever-this-is between he and Molly, there is nothing he wants to do except lie on that bed and stare at the wall he stared at as a boy.  _He deserves it._

The wall, after all, can't stare back at him.

And that's what he needs right now, something which cannot interact with him. Cannot connect with him. Cannot spur him to sentiment and has no corresponding capacity to be stirred to such yearnings by him. The wall, being entirely insensate, cannot be hurt by Moriarty or his Lieutenant, and it cannot break his heart by not wanting his touch when it shows him that it has survived an encounter with the Fake and his bitch.

The wall is- as inanimate objects often are- dazzlingly, intoxicatingly, reassuringly  _safe_.

_And for perhaps the first time in his adult life, Sherlock wishes to be safe._

So he remains, frozen and unmoving, in a moment- in a place- from his childhood. Still sure that summer will never come. Still wandering through the forest alone. Mycroft tries, at first, to get him to talk but if Sherlock hasn't the words to explain what he's going through to John then he's certainly not going to be foolish to display such sentiment to Mycroft, no matter how much he berates or badgers. His brother wouldn't understand, it's about  _feelings,_ a cautionary tale from the Land of the Goldfish. A cautionary tale of what happens when Sherlock lets himself have a heart. (It breaks).

That's what hearts  _do,_ he hears Jim Moriarty whisper sometimes. Caring is not an advantage, you know that.

But the thing about caring is that- for Sherlock at least- it's not entirely a choice.

In this way nearly three months pass, autumn fading into winter outside his window. He gets news from the Watsons- they offered to visit early on, but he had an episode, the sort he used to have when he was little. Mycroft used to be the only one who could calm him through them, and Mycroft wasn't there at the time so Sherlock broke his hand smashing it into the wardrobe door.  _Needless to say, the subject of John and Mary staying is not brought up again, though their letters come as regularly as clockwork, every second week._ He gets news from Scotland Yard too- his father reads him those letters- though he does not permit himself the pleasure of looking over cases or asking Lestrade how he's faring in the aftermath of Donovan's loss. It would be too much like remembering the man he once was, and he cannot countenance that- He simply will not permit  _that_ -

He can't move forward. He can't move back.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, he doesn't know what to do.

And then, one cold afternoon in early January, without his willing it, without his asking for it… Springtime simply arrives at his door.

She's wearing a grey coat and scarf. Her skin is still pale from the Lab. Her injuries have mainly healed but her eyes are shy and she barely speaks when Mummy shows her into his room. She seems fascinated with the headboard of his bed, she keeps staring at it, a small smile dimpled against her cheek. She steals inside, bringing the scent of wind and daylight with her, and as she pulls off her coat, hat and gloves, Sherlock finally permits the corner of his eye to perceive something besides the wall.

He's not willing to let himself examine why he's pleased with that.

He just knows that there's something new now, moving through the woods.

Her hair is longer, down past her waist, and it hangs in a plait about her shoulders. He notices is at she sits down, her body perpendicular to his on the bed. The colour is lighter as if it's seen some sunlight and her knuckles have healed, he can see it when she sits beside him. (It turns out that some wolves are innately beautiful, even when they've trudged to you through the wind and the snow and the cold.) She doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at him. Sherlock won't let himself stare back. And then, very slowly, very gently, she strokes her hand against his hair. He doesn't move. He doesn't want to.

Her hand twists in his curls, and he lets out the smallest, quietest sigh.

Even he thinks it sounds sad.

For a split second she freezes, and then, as he'd known she would, she smiles slightly. Repeats the action. Her fingers are warm and dry and delicate. They trace his nape, his temple, his ear and oh, but there is something calming in that.

* * *

He still doesn't talk and she doesn't either, they just wait as twilight falls outside. Just breathe and lie still together.

Sherlock's mother finds Molly the next morning, lying lengthways beside her son on his narrow, child's bed, one hand still in his curls, and for the first time in a long time she doesn't worry about him when she closes the door to his room.

* * *

_~ Lovely, Dark and Deep ~_

* * *

It turns out that Molly will be staying for a while; She does officially have a guest room, but she isn't expected to sleep in it, at least not according to Sherlock's parents.

Mycroft objects to this- he has objected to all efforts which he characterises as coddling Sherlock in his weakened state- but Mummy Holmes holds firm.

"It's not like either of them are going to fall pregnant, Mikey," she points out sensibly when he brings it up. "She's a lovely girl but I'm sure that at her age, if they were up to something they'd take precautions-"

Daddy is smiling affectionately at his wife, Sherlock can hear it in his voice. "Not," he says, "that accidents are always a bad thing, you understand…You're proof enough of that, Mikey-"

And he laughs.

His laugh sounds uncannily like that of his younger son, and it nearly makes that younger son smile to picture it, to picture his parents grinning soppily at one another as Mycroft shudders at the notion of… parental relations. (The idea that they had sex enough times to produce one child is bad enough to him, cogitating on how  _Sherlock_ came into being would probably cause his head to explode.) But Mycroft still knows better than to push and so- for the time being at least- it seems that Molly is permitted to stay.

She can even remain in Sherlock's bed, unmolested.

Despite his better judgement Mycroft has to allow that his brother seems slightly… better with her presence and that is what he wants, after all.

Sherlock hears all this as plain as day through the open kitchen door and his own open window: He's not convinced that that's an accident but he couldn't comment beyond that.  _Mummy has her ways of keeping him in the loop, he suspects_. When Molly opens her eyes though- she's still mostly asleep- she smiles up at him and (because she's asleep) he feels it's safe enough to return it.

The muscles in his face feel strange pulling into such an alien configuration though, and for the first time since Magnusson's death Sherlock lets himself think that maybe that's a bad thing.

He used to like to smile. Even if it made him look like a sociopath.

He tries to dismiss the thought but finds he can't: as he frowns Molly shakes her head to herself, curling more tightly into him, and- in a movement that smacks bewilderingly of the limb's having attained independence- Sherlock's hand reaches out to stroke its way through her hair too.

It's very, very soft.

Of course, he can't do it all the way, because it's in a plait and she didn't let it down before she fell asleep last night. And he hasn't moved really for months, except on the rare occasions when he fed himself, and the very rare times he was forced to bathe. So why he should want to do something as asinine as unplait Molly Hooper's hair is a mystery, one he has no desire to solve.  _He doesn't._

And yet, it's been so long since he's  _wanted_ to do something, even something asinine, that Sherlock is slightly… intrigued by the thought that he should do so.

This thought, it feels… odd, but familiar. A groove of reason running through his brain. The vague memory that he once upon a time  _wanted_ to do things. That once upon a time doing things was something which brought himself and others joy. This is something he has resolutely tried to forget and yet it would seem the deletion did not occur, which is wholly unexpected-

So before he can think it through entirely or get cold feet he slides his fingers through the end of Molly's braid and pulls the elastic loose.

He sets himself to separating the different strands that make up the braid, her hair coming loose until it streams like ribbons against his hand. Until it spills across his skin.

Molly doesn't wake up, or if she is awake she doesn't interrupt, and as he works Sherlock examines her from the corner of his eye. She seems so peaceful like this, more welcome than she had been even in the dark nights when he visited her in the forest and she beat him into his wildwood trance.

She seems more… herself, now.

He works slowly, methodically, only willing to give one hand to his endeavours. He still faces the wall- he's not ready to change that- and he will only look at the results of his handiwork from the corner of his eye. But it's enough. Enough of a change, enough of a difference. By the time he reaches the beginning of the plait he's sliding his fingers through the soft, downy hair at her nape, feeling almost fascinated by the texture of it against his flesh-

She stirs, waking, and as she does so Sherlock stills. Moves his hand away.

He's not ready to do anything but stare at the wall yet. Not with anyone else looking, anyway.

She opens her eyes and looks at him but he doesn't look back. Instead, he shifts his body so that it's infinitesimally closer to hers. He hopes she understands.

It appears she does: She's smiling at him.

Though she doesn't say anything she looks at him shyly from beneath her lashes and then loosens the rest of the plait, letting the hair fall loose around her shoulders.

She shakes her head to loosen it further, the scent of her perfume tickling his nose, and then lays back down beside him.

* * *

Molly doesn't ask him to talk.

Molly doesn't ask him to move.

Molly doesn't ask anything of him at all.

In the coming days she eats her meals in his room, letting him smell the food, but she doesn't try to tempt him. Mycroft has attempted everything from holding him down to intravenous injection- as if he'd be able to find a vein- but he had never tried the simple approach Molly now takes, and so he has never had any success in making him eat.

Molly, on the other hand, lets him see the food. Smell it. She eats with her fingers.

The first time Sherlock sees her lick those delicate digits clean, he's so transfixed that it takes him a moment to realise that he's no longer staring at the wall.

It's like glimpsing open farmland through the thickest of wildwood trees.

She notices him staring, he's certain of it, but she does nothing so gauche as letting on. She just finishes her salad and smiles to herself. Sets the plate on his sideboard and stands, stretches, her hands reaching for the ceiling before smiling at Sherlock and making her way towards his bathroom. She leaves the door open as she steps inside the shower: He can just about see her form flickering against the glass. Her skin is milky white. Her hair dark. She's going to have to use his shampoo, he thinks disjointedly.

He hears the hiss of the shower starting and then hears the door close. He can see her shadow against the bathroom wall now, not Molly herself.

He turns back to the wall, it's true, but it doesn't really hold his attention anymore.

* * *

~  _Across The Improbable Forest ~_

* * *

The snow starts to thaw and Molly decides she wants to go for a walk.

She tells Sherlock this one morning as she spoons her porridge, placing the honey beside his bowl on the dresser with her other hand and staring out the window. Her coffee (and Sherlock's) are leaving rings on the windowsill.

Her hair is loose, hanging down her back. It always is these days.

She hasn't once asked him to eat or wash or do anything in the time she's been here, but Sherlock has slowly begun doing things all the same.

And so, when she tells him she wants to go for a walk, it's not so strange that he thinks he might go with her. She tells him what she wants and then gets it; there is no pressure on him to want likewise. But it occurs to Sherlock that it is an awfully long time since he has been outside, and an awfully long time since he has seen woods besides those inside his mind, and for that reason…

For that reason, going for a walk with Molly is probably a good idea.

Certainly, he can see nothing to object to in it.

So he gets up, gets out of bed. Slips into the shower. He stands under the spray for full five minutes, not really remembering what it is that he should do. Aware only of the sensation of scalding heat against his skin. He must have left the door open-  _habit, learned from Molly, not sure why he's picked it up but it too is nothing to object to_ \- because, very quietly, he hears Molly say that his hair might be a good place to start.

He blinks. Nods to himself. Picks up the shampoo bottle and lathers his scalp as best he can.

Suds of soap follow that fine example, his fingertips turning pruned and red, and before he knows it he's clean. Wet. He has to remind himself to put a towel around his waist before he exit's the bathroom.

As he passes the bathroom mirror he catches a glimpse at himself and it's- He supposes it's a relief.

The man who looks back at him looks almost nothing like Sherlock Holmes.

He can see his collarbone, the hollowed notches of each rib. The bone-structure of his chest cavity. His eyes are darker than he thinks they were (asinine notion), and his bones poke, almost elegantly, through the radius of his wrists. He looks like a wraith.

Molly walks up behind him, quiet as a ghost, and drapes another towel over his shoulders.

"I'm going to my room to change," she says quietly. "I'll give you a minute, ok?"

Sherlock nods, not speaking, as she exits. He walks woodenly to his wardrobe and opens it, sees the bespoke, regimented clothes that the other him favoured. Clearly, these are the things Mycroft thought he would need, but he doesn't want to wear them, can't bear being tied into them again.  _A suit of armour hand-stitched on Saville Row isn't really what he wants these days._  As he stares he hears a noise behind him, turns to see his father standing in the doorway.

"Molly said you were going out for a walk," he says hesitantly. "I don't think- That is, I doubt any of those are suitable." He nods to the suits in the wardrobe. "You'll catch your death if you go out in anything like that, Sherlock."

Sherlock's voice is slightly scratchy from lack of use. "There's nothing else will fit me, I think," he says.

He doesn't know why, but he feels somehow… ashamed, to relay this information.

His father smiles though, that smile Sherlock inherited, and holds one finger up, obviously asking for a moment. "Back in a tick," he says, and a few minutes later he arrives back in Sherlock's room carrying jeans, a black Arran jumper and a coat. Socks. Shoes.

None of them belong to Sherlock.

"We're about the same height," he points out, oddly shy around his son though Sherlock can't imagine why. "The coat- The coat used to be mine. You remember?"

Sherlock does remember. The smell of the damp wool, his nose pressed against it as his father carried him home from school the first time he had an episode. That was back before Mummy went into working for the government, back before Mycroft was bringing in a second pay-cheque and things had to be made to make do, things had to be made to last.

Funny, he thinks, he thought he'd deleted all of those memories.

It's nice to find out that he was wrong.

His father helps him into the clothes, leaving him to tie his shoe-laces and rake a comb through his wet hair. Leaving him to struggle into a vest- the jumper will be too scratchy without one- all the while humming under his breath. Mummy would never have been capable of keeping quiet this long, neither would Mycroft, but it seems that Holmes Senior can appreciate the quiet his son needs.

When Sherlock's put on all the clothes he stands and his father holds out the old coat, pushes it up on Sherlock's shoulders. He stands in front of him- they're the same height now- and, without an ounce of self-consciousness does up the buttons of the coat. Sherlock feels simultaneously very grown-up and very child-like. That done, Father nods to him and steps away, gestures to the door. "She's waiting for you, Sherlock," he says. "Let's not make her do that for too long."

And with that, father and son walk out of the latter's bedroom, in Sherlock's case for the first time in several months.

They find Molly waiting in her woolly coat, hat and scarf by the front door and with a single look back at his father Sherlock heads out into the world outside. Into the snow.

* * *

The snow squelches underneath his shoes as he walks, but he does not mind it.

Molly and he slip and slide occasionally, but he does not mind that either.

They go to the bottom of the lane, turn right and head down the fields to the copse at the bottom of the road. Then around by the duck-pond, around by the willows, the same route Sherlock used to ride on his first bike. The same route Mycroft used to so hate walking him through when he had to mind him. They are the only people out.

When he gets back he smiles at Molly and opens the door for her. His father's waiting inside.

"Thought you'd find your way back, son," he tells him, and Sherlock wonders how his father knew this was just the right thing to say. He never used to.

Molly smiles at him and he smiles at Molly-

It's the beginning of something, but he doesn't know quite what.

* * *

A/N There now, nearing the end run. Hope you enjoyed that and if you did, why not review? The chapter titles reference  _Hungry Like The Wolf_ by Duran Duran,  _Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening_ by Robert Frost and  _Little Red Riding Hood_ by Olga Broumas. Hobbits away, hey!


	6. Things Born of Fire and Roof

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Think this is the second last chapter, enjoy. And thanks to Lono and spuffygirl for their reviews. 

* * *

~  _Things Born of Fire and Roof_ ~

* * *

The walk is so successful an experiment that it is repeated.

In fact, over the next month Sherlock ventures out with Molly no less than five more times.

They never go far, just circle the duck-pond. Occasionally they walk as far as the edge of Whiteleaf Forest, where Sherlock used to play as a boy. They don't talk much but sometimes, when she's crossing a particularly icy or marshy bit of land and she feels a little unsteady, Molly's places her hand in Sherlock's. Once he takes it, it has a tendency to stay there.

She never asks and he never mentions it, but that simple touch brings more comfort than Sherlock ever would have thought possible.

When Mycroft hears about this he returns to his parental home, heads up to Sherlock's room and demands that his brother walk out with him. (They have business to discuss, apparently. Cases to solve, dragons to slay, etc.) Sherlock however refuses point blank to go walking with anyone but Molly and his parents seem fine with that. In fact, Holmes Senior goes so far as to  _tell_ Mycroft to leave his brother alone, an event hitherto unprecedented.

This, needless to say, does not exactly go over terribly well with the man who  _is_ the British government.

It's the trouble with being important; one gets so used to having one's own way.

And such proactive parenting is not something with which Mycroft has had much experience. Since the age of eight Sherlock has been his charge and his speciality. He has been the one to understand and guide his brother, and his parents have said little in the matter. They have always instinctively understood that Sherlock is somehow  _his._ His saviour in a world full of goldfish. His responsibility, his pride, his joy.

His only companion.

Rightly or wrongly, this has always been how their relationship worked. How their family worked. This is who they are, or rather, this is who they have always been, and Mycroft simply cannot understand why anyone might want that to change.

Maybe it's worry about their younger son's mental health however, or maybe it's anger at the trouble which dabbling in Mycroft's world has brought to Sherlock, but it seems that Mummy and Daddy Holmes are no longer willing to entrust their youngest boy to their eldest. The way things have always been is no longer good enough, considering his mental state when he returned to them.  _They barely recognise the man who's been living with them all these months._  No, they feel that he's making progress now that nobody's poking and prodding him, now that Molly is with him, and if that's what he needs to get well than that's what he'll damn well get-

Mycroft is aghast at their words. Apparently they think that, "allowing the Infant Profligate to sleep all day and play kiss-chase with his little morgue mouse is by far a better option." Apparently they think that, "indulgence will help Sherlock," when indulgence will only hold him back. But Mycroft knows better. Or at least the fear of losing his brother makes him like to think he does.

Nobody is willing to listen to him however and he pouts like a martyr as his parents gainsay him again and again.

Sherlock sees all this as if from far away, outside of this family picture, and while he knows on some level that he should be hurt or worried or flattered or  _something,_ all he can really feel is a small, warm bubble of interest at the feel of Molly's knee pressing against his own on the bed. It's nice to be able to feel again.

She's curled up beside him, his boyhood copy of  _The Once And Future King_ in her hands. She's doing her best to pretend she doesn't notice what is going on and Sherlock is doing the same, blandly reading over her shoulder until Mycroft takes a step towards her, at which point he straightens. Moves to the fore. His much taller body is shielding her tiny one now, and he pretends he doesn't see the pointed look his parents share at this development.  _He's not sure he can take a discussion of sentiment right now_.

Mycroft takes another step forward and Sherlock straightens further. The body language is older than speech or custom and does not require translation:  _Leave what is mine alone,_ it says.

His brother at least seems to understand its import.

He shakes his head then, disgusted, but leaves without further comment, stomping down the stairs like an angry teenaged boy. (Sherlock will hear Mummy whispering to him later on, telling him not to worry, that Sherlock still loves him, that Sherlock still  _needs_ him, but he will pretend he hasn't heard those words and he knows Mycroft will do likewise.

Their relationship will even out eventually and it will do neither of them any good to be able to recall  _that._ )

Once the elder Holmes leaves Molly smiles at Sherlock and he resumes their prior position, her glance going questioningly to his parents for a split second. Mummy smiles and Father gives her the most miniscule little head shake; Thus reassured, she turns her attention back to her book.  _She has not, apparently, caused irreparable damage to her hosts or the filial bond._  Night falls and the wind howls outside, the sky turning grey, then silver, then ink black. Sherlock turns on his bedside lamp when the daylight dies and allows her to continue reading, curling up around her as she lies in the bed.

It is surprisingly peaceful to do so.

He can feel her knee, still brushing against his shoulder, and her breath is really rather lovely in the still, kind room. Every so often she shifts, stiff from sitting, and when that happens another part of her ends up touching him. When she flops onto her back it's her ankle, pressed gently against his bicep. When she sits back up again it's her toes, which she snakes cheekily underneath the small of his back, grinning at him when he notices.

"What?" she asks. "My feet are cold." She removes one pale little foot and waggles the toes at him as if to demonstrate. "See?" she says. "No socks."

Sherlock shakes his head, staring at that small foot. Staring at Molly. Truthfully he doesn't mind being used to warm her, though he doesn't really know how to tell her that without making it sound like something that it's not. But still… When she attempts to tuck is back under his body he takes her foot in his hands, wraps it around those little cold toes. She's right, they are freezing. It's unusual contact for them, skin on skin: The silence stretches out, her expression shifting into uncertainty the longer he holds onto her. The longer he looks at her the way he's doing right now. It would seem that she understands his misgivings, though she has probably miscalculated his reasons for them.

_They do not speak of sentiment, after all._

Without warning though, without asking himself  _why,_ he pulls her to him using only her foot. She skids slightly along the bed, laughing in surprise, and despite himself he answers with a bark of laughter of his own. She comes to a halt, her bent leg now tangled with his. Her head within inches of his own. He's had to let go of her foot or risk injury- Well, awkwardness.

She looks at him and he looks at her and suddenly her laughter trails off. As does his.

He shifts closer and her brown eyes widen, lashes shivering open and closed as if something has set her aflutter.

 _She is very, very lovely, his Molly_ , is what he thinks.

Without his willing it to, one of the hands which Sherlock had had on her ankle slides up to her wrist. Closes around it. She cocks her head, leaning in, the invitation obvious. It's no accident her lips have ended up just beneath his chin, within easy kissing distance.  _No accident at all._  Some part of him wants to respond, to reciprocate, but though the desire is within him, he finds that he cannot. Instead he pulls slightly back, lets go of her wrist. The moment, he knows, is broken, but then he always breaks things.  _It seems to be what he's best at._ Molly sighs quietly and when he looks at her he can see she's forcing herself into smiling.

He pulls her wrist to his mouth and presses a quick kiss inside, against her pulse. It trembles with a butterfly beat, underneath his lips.

"Not yet," he says quietly. "I can't-"

"I know." When he looks back at her the smile is genuine. She shifts so that now her forehead's pressed against his shoulder. Her fingers are tracing idle little patterns against the skin of his thigh. It's reassuring. "And if you're never ready," she murmurs-

"I know," he says. Because he really thinks he does. Such patience his Molly has. Such wonderful, meticulous patience.  _It will be alright. It will be. We will make it so. Even if I'm never ready._

She nods and curls onto her side. When he looks at her, her eyes are closed.

She looks peaceful, no hesitancy in her, no worry, and for that he is awfully glad.

Slowly, hesitantly, he draws closer to her, wraps his arms around her. It's awkward- he suspects he's going to end up with a cramp in his arm- but as he does it she lets out the softest little sigh. It sounds like a click of a clue sliding into place inside his mind. It sounds like the traffic in Baker Street, murmuring in the night. It sounds like tea and John's laugh and making Mrs. Hudson smile and the knowledge, sure and definite, that the game is bloody well on. She's relaxed though not asleep and for the first time in a long time… He feels like he might match her. He feels like he deserves to.

He presses a kiss to her crown in the darkness and she sighs again.

"When I'm ready-" he murmurs-

"If you're ready," she answers.

The moon turns silver through the window and the wind outside croons like a wolf.

* * *

~  _Serve, Wrapped In A Wolf-Skin_ ~

* * *

The letter arrives exactly nineteen days later.

Sherlock knows because he has started noting the passing of days and dates again, now that his Molly is here. This seems to please her.

Though he tries to suppress his old habits, one look at it tells him it's from Tom. The quality of the writing is scrawled, intimate, and it looks nothing like the handwriting of any of her relatives, or her colleagues at St. Bart's. It certainly isn't from John or Mary.

Sherlock doesn't mean to pry, but he can tell that whatever is in the letter has upset Molly, she says she's returning to London for the day as soon as she finishes it. So he reads it.

Its contents set something dizzying and terrifying clawing in his gut.

Because the letter says that Tom wants to see Molly again. Tom wants to meet her. He ended things so quickly, he says, and he wants to make amends.  _He wants Molly back._ Sherlock's no fool, he knows how rare it is for a man so spectacularly dumped to come back, looking for more of the same treatment. Which means one of two things. Either Tom wants revenge- probably through the method of securing intimacy or sex and then throwing Molly's trust back in her face- Or else he wants something far worse.

He genuinely wants to try again. He wants Molly to be  _his_ again.

It's this thought which sets the full-blown panic going in Sherlock, and for the first time in a long time he wishes he were the man he used to be, if only so he wouldn't have to feel such tumult raking through his chest.

But he is not that man anymore, and he cannot become him again. Even if it would be easier. Even if it would be safer. Even if it meant he could just throw on his Belstaff and stride out into the night, looking for a case. He knows that when Molly finds out what he did she will be angry: Before the Moriarty Hoax, before all this started, she had been quite insistent about what she termed boundaries (apparently he hasn't any). And now, considering the intimacies they have shared, she will be even more furious. He knows he shouldn't have read it without her permission. But he couldn't- he didn't see- He just wanted to make sure that she was alright-

She's his responsibility, just like he's hers. She's  _his_  Molly. Tom can right fuck off and leave her alone, that's what fucking Tom can do-

 _And what if that's not what Molly wants?_ Mycroft's voice sounds silky- smug- in his head.

_Maybe she wouldn't want broken little you and this broken little room for the rest of her days, did you ever consider that, brother dear?_

Sherlock shakes his head viciously to himself, pacing. Shaking. Trying to deny Mycroft's words though he knows that he cannot. His heart is hammering, his insides snarled up in emotion. Sentiment. Mycroft was right, it  _is_ a chemical defect. It  _is_  to be avoided, something so unruly and explosive that it turns a man into a time bomb. Turns a man into a ball of need and stupidity and useless, animalistic feeling.

_Feeling. Oh how he hates that bloody concept._

_Every bad thing that has happened to him in his life is because of bloody_ _**feeling.** _

But he is in its thrall now, and he can't help it. He shakes his head again, harder this time. Sharper. Trying to clear it. Covers his eyes, his head, with his arms, as if not being able to see the outside world will somehow make it cease to exist. He doesn't seem to be breathing properly at all: He can feel his fingernails digging into his palms, trying hopelessly to centre him, to bring him back to himself through ten small pricks of self-induced pain. But he can't. It isn't working.  _Nothing is working_. He's breathing so fast he's half afraid that he'll pass out. It feels almost like those evenings before he found Molly again, before she learned to hurt him and he learned the peace it could bring-  _He feels so lost-_

For a split second Sherlock wants that oblivion so badly he can taste it. Wants to go to Molly's room and demand they begin again, if only so that he won't have to feel all this anymore. But he can't. Because how could he ask her to do that again? And with the prospect of Tom, of normal, not-fucked-up, not-Sherlock Tom, on the horizon? She'd be a fool to indulge him. She'd be a fool to accept him when she has a choice.

No, he needs to remind her of all the good things about him, not all the ugly ones.

He needs her to forget what he is now if she's to agree to stay.

So Sherlock does what he does best: He sheds his skin in the hope of gaining another. He cuts himself open and creates something new, entirely certain that this is what his Molly would want. That she has given no indication of dissatisfaction with him- or indeed with anything between them- doesn't matter.

Sherlock Holmes had a hand in building their relationship and in that case it must be broken. Flawed. Badly in need of repair.

His recollection of the next hour or so is… hazy. He's fairly certain that he doesn't leave the house, but when he comes back to himself his room is a mess, clothes torn and thrown everywhere, the mirror above the sink askew. He rights it, looks at himself and as he does so, he realises with a groggy start that he's wearing one of the suits Mycroft brought him from London. It feels… It feels wrong on him, too tight (even though it hangs loose and it's not buttoned up properly) and as he looks at himself in it, his chest constricts. Again he feels as if he can't breathe. As if he'd never been able to breathe in such a garment but hadn't ever let himself notice. This is clearly nonsense though.

Ill-fitting and loose as the suit is, it's who Molly would want. It is who he is meant to be.

 _He'll give her what she needs, just like he did for Mary and John_.

He hasn't managed a tie but he has shoes. Socks. In all outward appearances he is Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective who faked his own suicide. The man who killed Magnusson, who saved his friends from a lifetime of fear and servitude, the dragon slayer clad in Saville Row. So why doesn't he feel better? Why doesn't he feel comfortable in this skin anymore? This is the person Molly wanted originally, this is the person she took so many risks for. If he's to keep her for himself then he'd best become him again, but looking in the mirror he isn't sure he can do and that thought brings a whole new wave of panic churning in his chest. So he leans back against the wall beside his window, trying to control his breathing. Trying to recover. He can feel a dull ache at the back of his head, can hear a faraway tapping, and it belatedly occurs to him that he's rapping his head slowly, methodically against the wall.

He's surprised at how much it hurts.

He wants to stop but he's not sure he can and even if he does, what good would it do anyway? What good will anything do?

He's broken everything. He's broken everything, just like he always does. He's broken him and Molly.

There's a click of a door opening then. The feeling of fingers cradling his skull, there where it's been tapping against the wall. His eyes drift open and he sees his father staring at him, a kind, quizzical look on his face.

He does not scold Sherlock for doing something so stupid. He does not scold him for the mess he has made.

No, Father just smiles and nods, his big, veined hand wrapping around Sherlock's elbow. "That's enough of that, son," he says softly.

His tone does not invite argument or demand explanation.

At his gentle tugging Sherlock finally steps away from the wall.

"Molly's going to leave," Sherlock blurts out, and it's the oddest thing but he doesn't recall deciding to say that. The words just flow out of his mouth. "She's going to leave and it's still broken and I can't- I can't-"  _I can't, I can't, I can't-_

If the last nine months had had a motto this would be it, Sherlock thinks disjointedly.

But Father just nods. Pulls him a little closer, a little further away from the wall. When he's near enough he wraps his arms around him and it's an odd thing, to feel so close to someone. To feel protected when you know rationally that you're by far the stronger and smarter of the two. But Father's not afraid and he's not surprised, he's just there. Just calm. Just present in holding his son together. Sherlock knows on some level that he should be ashamed of needing that, grown man that he is, but he's really too far gone to be able to sustain the emotion.

And if he has to be in pieces, he could do far worse than place those pieces in his father's hands.

* * *

He doesn't cry, he is fairly certain of that. Or if he does it is dry, tearless. Hopeless, wracking breaths taken in and forced out because finally he's with someone who is safe enough to withstand his falling apart. Someone who, no matter what he does, has to continue to care. He could never do this in front of Molly, he'd terrify her. He could never do this in front of Mycroft, his brother would never understand. He could never do this in front of Mary, or Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or even John, because then they might know what protecting them has cost him-

And he loves them all far too much to ever allow them to contemplate that.

His father holds him, still standing, for what seems like hours, and when he finally gets his breathing under control, he brings him downstairs and makes him a cup of tea and a piece of toast, sets it before him and then pulls up a chair at the table.

"Your mother's out for the day with Gladys," he says, "she won't be home until nightfall. Molly says she's staying overnight in London too, so it'll just be the pair of us. We'll get through this together, ok?"

Sherlock winces at the mention of Molly's absence, picturing her meeting Tom in his mind, picturing her smiling at him, whole and good and kind and not a murderer. Not someone who asked her to hurt him and kiss him and hate him. Someone normal, because normal is what she needs.

Maybe some of that shows on his face because Father shakes his head, takes a sip of his tea. He pats Sherlock's hand, just the once, and it should feel patronising but it really doesn't. "I don't think you have to worry about her leaving Sherlock," he says quietly. "If she stuck around this long, I doubt she'll disappear."

Sherlock shakes his head. "There are things between us-" He can't say it, he can't say  _that_  out loud. "I made things bad," he says instead, "I- I made things complicated for her-"

To his astonishment his father chuckles. "You're Alexandra Holmes' son, I don't doubt it," he says. Again he smiles, that grin which his younger son inherited. That grin which reminds Sherlock so much of simplicity and love and  _home._ "But you are also living proof that complicated isn't necessarily a bad thing-"

"This is bad." Sherlock says the words to his cup, unable to meet his parent's eyes. " _I_ was bad. I did… I have done some very bad things, and I must be punished for my part in them."

His father's expression turns shrewd. "And is that why you believe Molly will go away? To punish you?"

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes still on the cup. He can't make eye-contact right now. "I don't think she'll want to punish me. Molly isn't like that; She wouldn't hurt me just so that she can play judge. But- But…" He sighs. Shakes his head. What  _can_ he tell his father of his relationship with Molly? "The man she was engaged to wants her back," he says finally. "That's why she headed back to London today."

"And you think she'll say yes." For once, his father isn't asking a question.

Sherlock nods, painfully aware of how uncomfortable he feels admitting this. The worst of the panic may be over, but he can feel it beginning to claw at him again as he says the words out loud. "Tom is kind. Stable. Reliable." He laughs mirthlessly. "Would any of those epithets fit me?"

Holmes Senior shrugs. "No. But again, they wouldn't always describe your mother either. Not when I knew her first. And yet, here we all are."

And he smiles again, his eyes clearly seeing another place and time entirely.

There are few constants in Sherlock's life but his father's love for his mother is one of them.

The silence stretches out then. Watchful. Waiting. For a moment Sherlock lets himself believe that that will be the end to his and Father's discussion. Allows himself to believe that that's all there is to say. But though he might think that- might want it, even- he should have known that Arthur Holmes wouldn't just leave things hanging.

 _He's not a fan of doing things the easy way, just look at who he married_.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Sherlock," he says eventually. "Molly might go back to this Tom bloke. Especially if the bond is already there, and especially if you and she are- Well, if you and she aren't what she wants."

Sherlock blinks, startled by the honesty, but his father merely shrugs. "If it happens, that's nobody's fault and nobody's punishment," he says. "That's just the way life works out. And better that you know now than a few years down the line, or heaven forbid, when there's kids involved. But you'll still be alright, even if that  _does_  happen. You'll find a way, I know you will."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to shrug. "You saw how I was before she came here," he points out quietly. "You- You saw what I just did at the thought of her going away-"

His father nods. "Yes. And you may wreck your room several more times, or have several more relapses before you get back to this place, Sherlock. But you  _will_ get back here. I have no doubt that you will." He stands, lifts his cup and puts it in the sink. He has to speak over the sound of the running tap. "Molly might make things easier, but she's not only a crutch, and how you feel isn't only an injury," he says, his voice quiet and certain.

He turns back to Sherlock and ruffles his son's hair- So like his mother's, his only trait inherited from her.

Sherlock sips his tea and stares into space, trying to sort out his feelings. Hoping against hope that his assumptions are wrong.

* * *

Molly arrives back the next day to find any evidence of his episode cleaned up and Sherlock sitting calmly in the kitchen and waiting for her.

She doesn't realise at first the import of their being alone together, but within moments she understands how serious this might be.

* * *

A/N There now, as I said, second last chapter there, hope you have enjoyed. The chapter headings come from  _The Call of The Wild_  by Jack London and  _Journeybread Recipe_  by Lawrence Schimel.


	7. I Showed Her Flowers...

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for her review goes to sprinbok7.

* * *

~  _I Showed Her Flowers, White Dead-Nettle, Nightshade ~_

* * *

Sherlock's not really certain how to start this.

Oh, he knows how the man he used to be would have started it. There would have been pacing. Gesticulating. Questions fired, rapid and lethal as bullets, peppering the person he was interviewing with demands. Pressing them into submission. There would have been snapping, angry sentences. Deductions. Tart words, everything the subject was laid out before them like a schematic for a weapon. Everything the subject feared laid out, raw and bloody, like a sacrifice at their feet. He would have been confident, curious. Anxious to find any information, blessedly assured in his own inability to be truly touched by it.

And he would have been fearless. Absolutely and utterly fearless.

He looks at Molly over the gulf of the dinner-table now, sitting there in her little frock with her overnight bag tucked in at her feet, the ghost of Tom's last kiss probably on her lips, and he has the horrifying thought that the one thing he will never be with this woman again is  _fearless._

Because he knows what she is to him now, knows more surely than he did even the first time that he left. He was new to the notion of caring then; Only John had ever truly meant something to him beyond the fondness that filial obligation breeds. Now though, he understands the breadth and depth of damage that caring can do. He saw it yesterday when he tore apart his room. He understands the scope of it, now he has loved people, loved them more than he ever thought possible. Now he has learned to expect- no, enjoy- their love in return.

_He has, he fears, become addicted to it._

And yet one of those people may be leaving him, and- as his father pointed out- there is no way he can stop her. No way at all. No guarantee he can wring from her, no matter how bloody persistent or clever he is.  _She is as free to go as she was to come to him_. And unlike John, she may not even make some room for him in her new life. In fact, she may become completely lost to him-  _Even he knows it's poor form to have the creepy ex hanging around like you the spectre at the feast_. Sherlock knows already that he will not be able to watch her with someone else, not since he has become used to her presence by his side. Her presence in his heart. No, he will not be able to be a bystander in Molly Hooper's happiness, he knows that better than anyone-

And yet, how to tell her that? How to even start this conversation?

He looks at her, sitting as quietly as always and waiting, waiting, waiting for him to speak. Waiting for him to set his terms and come to her, just as she has always done. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and closes it again.

It's not that the words won't come, it's that they'll come in a torrent.

So he reaches into the caddy beside the bread-bin, the one his parents keep their mail in, and pulls out Tom's letter to her. He places it on the table between them.

"You know who that's from," she says, her tone reasonable.

"Yes," he says. "I read it." He's proud of how even his voice sounds.

Her eyes flick up to his in surprise. "You mean you didn't deduce it?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I- Well, I deduced who it was from. I- I had to read the letter to learn the rest." He leans back against the kitchen counter, tries to give the impression of nonchalance. Something tells him he's not succeeding, however.

It's the way Molly's looking at him, arms crossed defensively over her chest.

"And you felt you had to do that because..?" She lets the words hang on the air.

Sherlock crosses his arms to match her, tries to make his voice careless. He has the oddest feeling he's losing control of the conversation.

"I had to read it because I spent two hours staring at it, wondering what it was," he says eventually. He can hear the defensiveness in his voice too. "And then I spent another hour desperately running through scenario after scenario, each more excruciating than the last, about what Tom might want from you-"

"And what excruciating thing did Tom want from me in this intellectual exercise?" she asks. Anger is edging into her voice now. "What did you think would be so terrible that it would justify invading my privacy?"

Sherlock doesn't want to say the words, but he knows he will have to. Though they will open an emotional can of worms the likes of which he has never seen, he'll have to say them or she'll just think that he's playing with her. That he's coming back to himself after all. That she doesn't matter or he doesn't care or that they're broken already and he just needs to present her with some proof. But though he tries, he opens his mouth again and nothing comes out. Nothing.  _I can't,_ he thinks,  _I can't-I can't- I can't- the bloody motto of this entire year-_

So he marches over to the table and he leans down and he kisses Molly's lips.

_If he can't say it then he can show her. Can't he?_

She is soft and sweet beneath the press of his mouth, this contact so bloody wanted, so bloody anticipated, and as he pulls her closer he hears her give a little gasp, her mouth opening delicately in response. Her breath mixing with his. It feels… It feels  _right_.

There's no way, he thinks, to misunderstand this. She'll know. She'll feel it, creature of emotion that she is. She'll understand better than his words could have told it that he wants her and Tom can't have her and he'll do most anything to make her stay. That she's his Molly, his just like he's hers and Tom bloody Jenkins can bugger bloody off-

Sherlock doesn't want to think about how much pressure that is to put on one little kiss.

_But then, he doesn't want to think about the possible consequences of his actions at all._

Pressure and consequence are precisely what he's added, however. A tinderbox moment, a spark, when what is needed is calmness. The soothing familiarity of words. For a split second he feels her lean into him, her lips softening beneath his, her mouth opening to him- And then she pushes him away, both her hands braced against his chest. He actually stumbles a little, barely managing to catch himself; She stares at him with wide eyes and he's prepared for it, a demand perhaps for an explanation, or maybe another kiss, or even as argument, because he knows how to have arguments, they're practically his lingua franca-

What he isn't prepared for is the way her face pales. The way her eyes widen until they're wide as saucers, their surface shivering with tears.

He isn't prepared for the way Molly stumbles to her feet and away from him, her hand to her lips as if she wants to physically bar them from him.

Her mouth is working behind her fingers, her voice murmuring something, over and over. It's coming out strangled, her body curling in on itself. Protecting her. Sherlock gets near enough to hear and he realises- He realises she's saying, "no," over and over again.

"No," she's murmuring. "No, no… This isn't right…"

For a moment she's looking inwards again, her body contorting defensively to make her look even smaller. Helpless. It's the pose she adopted that night, just after she stabbed the Fake Moriarty's Lieutenant. A pose to hold herself together and oh but he knows how that feels now. The remembrance twists sharply in him, adding more dismay to what he's feeling already. Adding more dismay with the notion that he's hurt her without even meaning to. ( _Breaking things_ , he thinks,  _breaking things… All you know how to do is break things_ …)

He takes a clumsy, hesitant step towards her-  _he wants so much to make her feel better_ \- and she instinctively takes one back.

It occurs to him, somewhat randomly, that it's almost like they're moving through the steps of a dance.

Without a word, Molly pushes her way out of the room and out of the house, through the door and into the world outside. Into the wildwood green. She turns down the path, the one she's taken with Sherlock on their walks so many times, and as soon as her feet hit the grass she takes off into a run. Sherlock sees it, sees her form flit as quick as a ghost through the trees until she's nearly lost to him- Nearly safe from him forever-

For a moment he stands in the hall. Unsure. Unwilling. Not at all certain that he can leave the house without her. Not at all certain what the consequences will be if he does.

But then he hears it, something he thought he'd lost.

The call of a puzzle, the need to find out what happened. The desire, the curiosity. The faith that knowing will be better than not knowing, and maybe that's what he's been missing all along.

 _The game,_ some voice whispers quietly within him,  _is on._

So slowly, carefully, Sherlock goes to his room. Puts on the coat that was once his father's-  _It's his now, according to his dad._ He fumbles in the kitchen drawer for the keys to the front door-  _he hasn't had his own set in years_ \- and closes the house up behind him. Heads the way he last saw Molly go, keeping his focus on her and the notion of finding her.

He can start thinking about the import of what he's doing later, he needs to find Molly  _now_.

* * *

_~ A Dark, Tangled, Thorny Place ~_

* * *

There's no real danger to this path, especially now that the snow's past. It's remote, true, but that doesn't follow that any mischief will come to Molly, not in these woods. He skirts the edge of the trees, going down as far as the duck-pond and the willows; there's a small park bench down there and a bit of cover from the trees. If she wishes to hide then it's her nearest opportunity to do so. He is proved correct in his assumption, for as he rounds the turn of the path he sees her on the bench. Her face in her hands, her elbows perched on her knees; judging by the shaking, shuddering little breaths that she's taking, she's crying and trying to hide it.

 _Who on earth does she think will see her there?_ Sherlock wonders.

_And who on earth does she think will mind her crying?_

_You would have,_ that voice within him points out.  _Once upon a time you would have scolded and jeered at her for that, and then tried to use it to your own advantage. Don't try to deny it._

 _The voices in one's head are always particularly annoying,_ Sherlock thinks,  _when one must concede that they have a point_.

But that was before this last year, Sherlock knows. That was before he became quite so familiar with the emotions which cause tears. That was before they became part of his life and a part of himself with which he must daily deal. The difference between coldness and kindness can often be a simple matter of experience, that's what this year has taught him, that's what his life has taught him-

_And if there is a choice to be made between coldness and kindness, with Molly kindness will win every time._

So he makes his way cautiously over to the duck-pond. Sits himself at the far end of the bench, a safe distance away from Molly. For a moment he is absolutely at a loss as to what to do next, but then he- Well, then he thinks about what his father would do and he does that. He clears his throat, lets her know he's there, and when she looks up at him he smiles. He knows it looks uncertain but he feels uncertain so that's alright, and when she sees that something in Molly seems to… soften.

She was expecting an argument, he suddenly realises. She was expecting him to become cross.

Sherlock stares at the duck-pond's surface, grey as a mirror in the dull spring light, and lets the silence stretch out. And out. He needs to show her that he won't break it by being angry.

_He thinks… He thinks that maybe she needs to know that just as much as him._

He's not really sure how much time passes before she stops crying. He just waits until her breathing normalises and then he looks at her from the corner of his eye. When she doesn't stiffen or look scared he turns more fully to her. Gingerly moves until he's a little closer to her on the bench. She looks so tiny, sitting there, that for a moment he has the ridiculous notion of pulling her close and settling her in his lap. He would at least have a better grip on her then. It would be like that first night, when they shared a bed. But he wouldn't like feeling trapped and he doesn't think she would either so he puts the notion from his head, however mournful that may feel. He doesn't want her frightened of him. He's never wanted her frightened of him.

A beat, as they both sit in silence and assess one another. And then-

"I'm sorry," she says softly, and it's strange, but it's the one thing he didn't expect her to say.

He's not entirely sure what it's in reference to, but he can guess.

"You don't need to be sorry," he says gruffly. "You- I mean, I didn't ask. I'm bloody terrible at asking-"

She blinks at that, surprised. "All you  _do_  is ask for things, Sherlock," she points out.

"Nicely." He says this to his shoes. "I wanted to ask you nicely. I wanted to- That is, I wanted to  _treat_  you nicely. Now, that, well, now that Tom is a possibility again, I wanted to show that I could- That it wouldn't be like it was before-"

And he puffs out a sigh. He really wishes they could just go back to his bed and be quiet again, he never made Molly cry when they did  _that._ "But I'm not… Niceness does not come easily to me," he continues. "I know that. Everyone bloody knows that. And I suppose I wished to show that I could remedy it-"

"By kissing me without the slightest warning?" He sneaks a look at her and she's staring at her hands, awfully hard. Her lip is twisted between her teeth.

"Yes, well, I thought…" He straightens his shoulders, addresses his hands now. He's not entirely certain, even now, how to say what he wants to say. "Look, I know I buggered it up, but you must understand… I'm very, very,  _very_ bad at this sort of thing, Molly."

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her eyebrows rise upwards; Apparently his admitting to any sort of failing is surprising to her.

"Yes," he says testily, "I can admit to that. Suggesting anything else would be a stupidity bordering on the cretinous. And yes, I know kissing you was just, well, I shouldn't have used it as a way to say something when I didn't have the words to say out loud. But you- You said you'd wait. You said it would be ok if I was never ready. And then, then as soon as bloody stupid arse Tom clicks his fingers you just come running-"

"I didn't come running, Sherlock," she says quietly. She's twisted herself smaller again, the words said to her hands. She doesn't sound angry, she sounds tired, and that scares him more than anything else. "I didn't come running," she repeats more quietly, "I went to see him to tell him no-"

Something stills inside Sherlock, becomes awfully, awfully watchful.

 _It's the trouble with these feelings things,_ he thinks to himself,  _they can catch you terribly unawares._

"You told him no?" he asks quietly- he's aware the repetition is redundant- and it's surprising, the way his throat catches on that small phrase.

He can feel something flickering, something  _burning_ inside his chest now.

She nods. "I told him no. I told him… Well, I told him that there was someone else." She drags her gaze from her hands, looks at him. "Because there is someone else, Sherlock, there always has been-"

He says the words very carefully. "And is that someone else me?"

He's not aware of any other potential candidates, but he doesn't want to bugger things up any more by making assumptions. And besides, he'd… He'd like to hear her  _say_  it.

She throws him the ghost of a smile. "Yes, it's you. No matter what happens, it will always be you, I've accepted that now." She shakes her head to herself though, her smile fleeting. Suddenly she looks a little lost. "But…" And she sighs, rakes a hand through her hair. She's back to staring at her hands. "I just don't know what to do about what happened in my flat," she says eventually.

He stills. "You mean..?"

"I mean the way I beat you to a pulp," she says severely. "I mean the way you asked me to hurt you and I just- I just- I just  _did_  it. Oh God, I even enjoyed it. How could I possibly have done  _that_ to you and claim that I care about you? How could I even think of kissing you after having done  _that..?_ "

And she shakes her head to herself, tears starting to shiver in her eyes again. Suddenly she's just as upset as the moment he sat down and Sherlock feels a stab of bewilderment as to why.

"But I asked you to," he points out sensibly. "I needed it- It was the only thing that kept me sane all those months. It was either that or the drugs, and we both know those would have killed me…"

She looks at him in horror. "So it was me or heroin?"

"Yes!" He stands now, paces in front of her. He can feel his agitation mounting, that clawing feeling in his gut from yesterday coming out to play and for once he doesn't have a clue what to do. But this talking business, this does seem to help.

He needs to hear the words said aloud and perhaps so does Molly.

"You don't understand- I do this," he says. "I give myself over to things, when I have to. When I need to, to not have distractions. When the people I care about are on the line. My mind, it's like an engine: It never stops. It never slows down.  _I can't ever get it to shut up._ That's why I started using: The drugs used to do that. It's like recharging a battery; I turn my mind off for a little while and when I come back I'm sharper than ever-"

"But what does that have to do with asking me to hurt you?" she snaps. "What does that have to do with letting me do all… all  _that_?"

And she shakes her head, her arms curling tightly around her body. Without her noticing, it seems, she's drawn her knees up to her chest until she's sitting, tiny and shaking on the park bench. She looks frightened, terrified actually, but for once Sherlock doesn't think the thing scaring her is him. He thinks… He thinks she might be scared of herself, for what she did to him. And oh how he knows what it's like to be scared of your own capacity for violence. For chaos.

_Appledore, and the roof of St. Bart's, and two years criss-crossing the globe to take apart an empire built by a madman will do that to a person._

So he kneels down in front of her, puts his hands on her knees until she peeps over them at him. For a moment he is once more adrift, but then he thinks about what his father would do in this situation and he does that.  _It really is becoming a rather useful rule of thumb._

"Molly," he says quietly, "the drugs would have killed me: do you accept this?"

She nods. It looks mutinous and unwilling, but she still moves her head.

"And going to someone else would have been too dangerous, do you accept this too?"

Again she nods, but this time she seems angrier, as if the thought of him with another is irritating even though she doesn't want to think about his being with her. For some reason, he finds this pleasing as Hell, though he can't concentrate on that now.

"Then do you accept-" He reaches forward, very gently, and tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear- "do you accept that, if I am going to have someone inflict pain until I can find some peace, it should be someone I can trust, someone who wouldn't- Who wouldn't take advantage? Someone who  _cares_ for me? Is that something you accept?"

She opens her mouth to object and then shuts it again. Her body tenses, tightening in on herself, but she gives another curt nod. She agrees, but she doesn't bloody look happy about it and for some idiotic reason Sherlock has to fight back the urge to smile.

He knows how that feels too; He remembers it, from a time before he was lost in the forest.

"Then if you accept all that," he says quietly, "why are you upset?"

She looks at him, her big brown eyes wide and grave. Her expression suggests that his answer should be obvious. "I'm upset," she says quietly, "Because I care about you and I enjoyed hurting you. That- That makes me a horrible person-"

"No, it doesn't." She opens her mouth to speak over him but he doesn't give her the chance. "You gave me what I needed when I needed it. You showed me how much you cared for me- Maybe not in the same way most people would, but it meant that to you, I know it did, and it meant that to me. That's all that matters: The rest can go hang-"

And acting on impulse he leans in closer, pressing his forehead against hers, the slight skin-to-skin contact making his stomach tighten as little else has in his life.

_It's new, and dizzy, and a little frightening, this willingly courting another's closeness._

For a moment she's still and then, with a little, harsh huff, Molly's arms come up around his shoulders, pulling him tighter to her. Her fingers trace the hair at the nape of his neck and my but that's a soothing sensation. That's something Sherlock thinks he could get used to feeling. As he relaxes into her embrace she lets out a sigh, pulls back and looks at him. She smooths the hair off his face, her expression a mixture of fondness, exasperation and calm.

"You really don't have a problem with what happened, do you?" she says quietly. "And you- You don't think there's something wrong with me because of it."

He shakes his head. "No. I will never accept that there is anything wrong with you." Her eyes close at the words, she smiles, and he knows he's said a good thing. "Besides, you are not the first person to have done that to me, Molly," he continues. "You're just the first person I've ever trusted to do it, and cared about. And if I have my way, you will be the last." He presses his lips to her forehead.

"Surely that means something too."

And he reaches out, strokes his thumb along her jaw. The softness of her skin is electric. It feels strange, this longing for closeness, when for so long all he's wanted is quietness and the still of the woods. But then, he's very good at chasing after things that aren't good for him.

She sighs. Leans her forehead on his again. After a moment she presses a small kiss to the frown lines between his eyes.

 _On the other hand,_ Sherlock thinks,  _he seems to be quite adept at finding things that are good for him too._

"I'm not sure if I can agree with you about this," she says softly then. "And… I'm not sure if I could do that again. Hurt you, I mean." She cocks her head questioningly, her expression uncertain. "Is that something you can deal with? That I might not want to, to indulge?"

He nods. "I might have a relapse tomorrow," he points out quietly. "I might… I might end up the way I was when you first came here, not able to talk to anyone. Staring only at the wall and not even willing to see the people I'm frightening. Lost in the woods inside my head. And I'll certainly never quite be the man you knew again: Is that something  _you_ can deal with? That you might get, well, this-" he gestures to himself, all ill-fitting coat and over-large shoes- "Instead of the clever detective in the funny hat?"

A small, soft smile graces her features. " _That,_ I can live with Sherlock Holmes," she says quietly. Her hands stray from his hair to bracket his face, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones and in that moment the smile Molly shoots him is the loveliest thing he has ever seen.

He has never before felt quite so loved.

"So we'll just… move forward?" he says quietly. "Play it by ear? Accepting the possibility of disaster?"

Molly smiles, more widely this time. "If I was afraid of disaster," she points out, "then I would have given you a bloody wide berth all these years, Mr. Holmes. So… yes." The grin turns slightly wicked. "Hell, yes."

And with that she kisses him once, lightly, on the cheek and she lets him pull her to her feet and towards the road home. She walks at his side, her body pressed against his, and Sherlock fancies that they both enjoy the sensation of the other's closeness. That they're both happy the other is there.

When they arrive back his parents have returned from town, bearing that most hard-to-come-by delicacy: decent Chinese takeaway. (Chinese takeaway, decent or otherwise, being something mightily rare in this part of the world). Sherlock helps Molly with the bags and plates, keeping near to her side through everything. He sees his parents' looks at this but he says not a word, and when the meal is finished, he holds his hand out to Molly and without a word they head for his room.

_He's not sure what's going to happen when he gets there, but it turns out that not being sure is okay._

His father says nothing, merely smiles as they walk out. Sherlock distinctly hears him telling Mummy to leave the boy, and he can't be sure but he suspects persuasions besides the verbal may have been brought to bear, considering the girlish shriek of laughter he hears his mother give as he starts on the stairs. At this he and Molly exchange amused looks and she grins, her brown eyes starry. Tomorrow, Sherlock knows, Mycroft will get the whole story from Mummy, and then he will doubtless be back, demanding he come out to play again. Demanding he finds dragons to slay. But this is not tomorrow, and Sherlock's not in his brother's keeping, and Mycroft wouldn't understand what he'd say about Molly in anyways-

So he pulls her close and closes the door to his bedroom, and as they lay down beside one another, Sherlock decides that several kisses and an understanding are more than enough progress for one day. He watches Molly in the moonlight, listens to her breathing, and in that moment he is… He is content.

* * *

 

When he wakes up the next day she's still there, her head resting over his heart. He breathes in the scent of her and smiles and welcomes a new day.

* * *

A/N There now, hope you enjoyed that. I know I said that this was the last chapter, but I think the story needs an epilogue. There's one more person Sherlock has to talk to before he and I can lay this all to rest. As always, any reviews are greatly appreciated, and the section titles are taken from  _Little Red Cap_ by Carol Ann Duffy and  _The Waiting Wolf_ by Gwen Strauss.


	8. Epilogue: At Childhood's End

_Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. And thanks for their reviews go to springbok7 and spuffygirl: cheers! Here it is, the last one. Enjoy.

* * *

~  _At Childhood's End ~_

* * *

Spring comes, and then summer, and still Sherlock and Molly stay in his room.

It's not that they fear leaving, not really. It's just that winter lasted for so long this time, and they need to recover, they need to be sure they can survive before heading out into the green again-

 _Neither will venture forth until they're sure the other is ready to come too_.

And so, months pass in the Holmes household and Molly becomes a fixture there. Sherlock's parents don't seem to mind, in fact they like having her around. She has some semblance of influence on their younger son-  _no mean feat_ \- and she makes an effort to be a good house-guest. She- unlike either of their children- even tries to be helpful without having to be threatened. (Mycroft claims this is setting a bad example). And even if she wasn't… Well, she helped to save to their boy, an act which puts her in at least in the same league as John Watson in their eyes.

So if they sometimes hear… unexpected noises coming from their younger son's room when she's in there, well who are they to object?

Sherlock's not a child anymore, and neither is Molly.

_And besides, they spent their sons' childhoods mentally scarring them with blatant acts of parental affection; As Mummy Holmes often points out, she and her husband are owed some payback on that score._

And so a handful more months pass peacefully. Quietly. A rhythm, kinder than the ones of the city, setting in and lulling Sherlock until he begins to heal.  _Until both he and Molly do_. The very predictability of life in his parents' house soothes him, allowing him to start putting himself back together. Without anything to distract him outside he can work through the forest within, setting up precautions so that it won't run wild within him the next time he suffers a trauma. (The man who grew up around Mycroft Holmes and is best friends with John Watson is not so foolish as to believe that trouble will never darken his door again). There are set-backs of course, nightmares and upsets for both he and Molly. She suffers flashbacks once the case goes public and she has to relive the Lieutenant's death in her witness testimony. The one year anniversary of Magnusson's killing arrives and Sherlock takes it badly, retreats into himself and the forest for a while. He even refuses to eat.

But though he spends some time in the wildwood, it's a temporary event. A passing season. Everyone in the household understands that.

It's a slow thing, he learns, accepting a life lived inside your own vulnerability, but though it's the most disempowering state the man Sherlock used to be can imagine ,he wouldn't change who is now, or what happened. And he knows his Molly feels the same.

And it is with this knowledge in mind that one day Sherlock asks to walk his father down to the gate as the older man heads into town. He needs advice- "Doubtless about something terribly manly and important," his mother grins at Molly- and he can think of no better person to ask. So they put on their coats for the trek to the house's gates. As they wind their way down towards the duck-pond, Holmes Snr. Waits patiently, his son keeping pace beside him. Every so often Sherlock opens his mouth, about to ask something, but at the last moment he always closes it.

A year ago it might have been alarming, now his father merely waits.

Eventually they reach the gate and this is it, no more wriggle room. Without saying a word Sherlock takes in a bracing breath, hands his father a letter. The envelope is pristinely white, the writing on it a spider-like scratch.

The older man glances at the name and address, nods to his son. "It's a good idea, Sherlock," he says quietly. "You've talked to Molly about this?"

Sherlock nods, eye-contact suddenly becoming an issue for him. "She thinks it wise and I'm deferring to her judgement-"

Father stops. Puts his hand on his son's shoulder. "Is this her idea or yours?" he asks. His tone is… curious. Hesitant. He fears his son is being pushed into this before he's ready, Sherlock realises.  _As if Molly would make him do something he's not ready for yet_.

Sherlock looks at him and rolls his eyes, for one moment that man who chased crime through old London Town again. The elder Holmes smiles at him, reassured, but then his cheekiness oftentimes has that effect.

"Forget I asked," he says. "Should have known better." And with a wink- Sherlock now knows where he gets  _that_ particular habit from- he sets off for the path into the village, whistling as he goes.

The sight is almost enough to convince Sherlock that he's adopted.  _Almost._

Sherlock's not sure why but his own smile is bright as he waves him off, and when he comes back to the house he can't help but notice that his mother is absent. She's taking to doing that these days, leaving him alone with Molly. You'd think she'd be trying to guard her darling son's virtue but no, she's determined to pave his way to lechery _. It's her way of showing affection_ , Sherlock suspects.  _She has always approved of interpersonal… squishiness._

After all, squishiness has served her well, she has a husband and a family to show for it.

He takes one look at Molly's wry little smile and he realises that she's noticed too. She rises and holds her hand out to him and when he takes it they wind their way up to his room. The bed is soft and their breaths are quiet and in that room, oh in that room there's so much possibility-

It's so much easier to breathe there than in the deep, dark woods.

* * *

When the answer to Sherlock's letter comes, it's hand-delivered.

The hand that delivers it isn't the hand of the person it was sent to. No, this hand belongs to a member of that select circle, those who have shot Sherlock Holmes.

_Of course, this person is unusual in that they were hoping the bullet wouldn't actually kill him, but very few people know that._

"John was hoping to come himself," Mary says as she sits in the Holmes' parlour, little Emma cradled against her chest.

 _The child is surprisingly big for one so young,_ Sherlock thinks.  _The last time he saw her she was… tiny._

"He read the letter, and he was delighted to hear from you, but…" She trails off and shoots Sherlock and Molly an uncharacteristically sheepish smile. Lowers her voice confidentially, as if afraid the little one will understand what she's about to say about her father, though why she suspects this when the baby's less than a year old is anyone's guess.

"He was worried, actually," Mary continues. "He thought… Well, he thought that maybe seeing him on top of the baby and me would be a bit too much. After everything that happened, and all."

And the new Mrs. Watson shakes her head, looks at Sherlock. If he has to describe her expression, it would be… tentative.  _But the shrewdness in her gaze is never far away._

"I'm not supposed to admit that, some breach of the man-code apparently, but that's why he's not here," she's saying. "It's the only thing that could keep him away, though- You do know that, right?" And she stares at Sherlock, genuinely worried.

She's always understood his importance to her husband, and she seems to understand it now.

Sherlock however merely inclines his head. He doesn't want to worry her, but he knows that he may not be able to help it. I _t's been too long since she's seen him._

"So he's been trying to protect me?" he says quietly instead.

The thought brings that same flickering warmth to his chest that Molly's presence does.

"Yes," Mary says, "he's protecting you. Just like you did us." Another dip of the head, another tentative look. "You- You saved our family Sherlock, don't think we don't know that."

And she lays one hand, one gentle, easy hand, upon his chest. It is there for but a moment.

Sherlock feels something twist inside him at her words, clawing, but he takes a deep breath and doesn't engage with it. If Mary notices it she doesn't say anything and though Molly scoots a little closer she likewise holds her peace. She just brushes against him as she pours the tea, the tentative contact as obvious a caress to him as a kiss from another would be.

* * *

The rest of the visit passes without incident, Mary chatting her way through all the gossip their circle of friends generate. The state of 221B, how Mrs. Hudson's looking forward to seeing him. Lestrade meeting someone new at his grief counselling group and John wanting Sherlock to check her out when he comes back to London. By the time the visit is over she seems more relaxed, and she promises the next time John will be with her-

"If that's alright with you, Sherlock?" she asks in that easy, smiling way she has.

She appears quite recovered from her earlier nervousness. He knows she's tenser than she's letting on, but she makes the effort.  _They're quite alike, in that._

Sherlock nods and holds out his hand to Molly. Takes it. Again he sees Mary's pleased little grin. "Tell him there's nothing to be afraid of here," he says quietly. "Tell him… Tell him that I should like to see my best friend again."

Mary smiles. "I think that can be arranged," she tells him, and Sherlock knows that Mary's will- like the Almighty's- will  _always_ be done.

* * *

~  _Coat of Silver, Eyes of Gold_ ~

* * *

That night he has the oddest dream, Molly with a baby in her arms. The child looks a little like Emma. She's wandering through the forest but she's not frightened, oh no. Nothing in this wood frightens his Molly.

And the child she holds, all blue eyes and dark curls now, she isn't frightened either.

He doesn't think she realises he's there, but whenever he gets too far behind her suddenly she's beside him again, the child at her hip. Its youthful voice cooing. Molly's brown eyes are golden underneath the wildwood trees and she hums a lullaby as she walks. Her perfume strays behind him, riding the breeze like a taunt. Sherlock keeps trying to walk behind her, but somehow she always ends up following him-

_He isn't that surprised though: It's always like that in dreams._

As he walks he sheds his clothes like he sheds his skin. Shoes, gloves, shirt, tie falling away until finally he's pulling his old red hoodie from his time on the streets over his head and shoulders. Breathing finally, the air on his skin, and as he makes to toss it away- He suddenly wakes up.

He is hard, breathless, blinking. But he feels… contented.

This is no hardship to him, he realises as he falls back asleep.

* * *

If Molly came bringing spring, John comes bringing Autumn.

_The heat of summer is ended, but he comes with a harvest all the same._

He walks quietly in, Emma with him in her pram, a big smile on his face. Mary wanted to come apparently but they couldn't both be spared from the practice, an excuse Sherlock sees through the moment it's said.

_Mary always did know how to make them communicate, after all._

Molly and his mother coo and grin at little Emma and within moments she's out of her father's arms and into her would-be aunts.' (It's one of his mother's areas of expertise, baby-napping… Mycroft learned his skills from the best.) Molly shoots him a slightly apologetic look as she holds the child to her chest but the sight doesn't bother Sherlock. She looks rather lovely, he thinks, with a child at her breast.

 _And even if she didn't, that child… There is little he wouldn't do for_ _**that** _ _child or her parents._

For the first time in a long time though, that thought doesn't bring pain.

He and John leave the women to it, retiring into the front room, talking about inanities. There's the same rounds of gossip as Mary's visit- J _ohn definitely wants Sherlock to take a look at Lestrade's new girlfriend, he thinks there's something up with her._  As the two friends chat about everything and nothing Sherlock feels something loose in his chest, something which he had been holding tight to all this time.

Because it's a very strange thing to see your own jagged edges in another person; All this time, it turns out he has been afraid that something had been broken, ruined, when he shot Magnusson. All this time he had been afraid that he wouldn't be able to leave the anger he felt at John for what he'd done for him. But with his best friend here, he feels only a sense of acceptance. Of contentment. It's… It's like nothing has changed between them. Like he can still be Sherlock, even after Magnusson, and Moriarty, and the forest.

He'd do what he's done- everything he's done- again, and for the first time since Appledore Sherlock feels no shame or anger at that.

_He doesn't need to be lost in the forest because he kept those he loves safe._

John looks at him sideways, winding down some story about Donovan's replacement and his obvious stupidity. He sees Sherlock's expression and though he wants to ask, Sherlock knows that he will not.  _Not today, at any rate._ Instead he smiles and tells another story, and when Sherlock's father comes in and offers him a beer he accepts it. Sherlock says he'll stick with the wine, thank you, and both men tease him mercilessly.

 _He pointedly reminds them that he has a woman waiting for him in bed upstairs, and beer will help him little with_ _ **that**_.

This leads to a frankly alarming round of slagging off about Molly, Mary, his mother, how John got the nickname "Three Continents Watson," and why precisely Sherlock's father has a tattoo somewhere about his person (though he won't say where, something for which his son is very, very grateful). Sometimes the conversation is easy and sometimes it's difficult, the tenseness coming and leaving Sherlock. But he handles it as he has learned to, and pretty soon John stops being so nervous every time he seems to goes silent.

_The doctor accepts that it will pass, as everyone else has had to do._

It will be weeks before they talk about dark things and Moriarty, and how Sherlock's actually feeling, but in the here and now Sherlock's happy to have his friend back. He tells his Molly as much when he slides into bed with her that night, and in the darkness her eyes look golden. Her smile is bright.

He wraps himself in her arms and sleeps, and the forest calls to him not at all.

_He has other paths to walk tonight, and for many nights hereafter._

* * *

A/N There now, that's it. I might eventually revisit this Sherlock and Molly, but for the time being I think they'll be fine. As always, I hope you enjoyed this story, and thank you for reading. If you want to review, that would be lovely too ;-) Oh, and the chapter headings for this come from  _Little Red Cap_ by Carol Ann Duffy and  _Silver and Gold_ by Ellen Steiber. Hobbits away, hey!


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